


Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part II

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: Time Does Not Bring Relief by Kadru [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Romance, Series: The Redemption Project 57, h/c, other pairing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-03
Updated: 1999-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 46,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collin's past comes back to haunt Jim and Blair as two strangers arrive in Cascade determined to separate them.<br/>This story is a sequel to Time Does Not Bring Relief, Part I.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Time Does Not Bring Relief II

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Disclaimers: Blair, Jim, Simon, Rafe and Naomi are all characters belonging to Pet Fly Productions and UPN. I'm only using their characters for fun, entertainment and fantasy. I repeat: no profit! Ian Yoshito, Collin McPherson, Bass Sanders, Didion Sachs, Lee Whitmore, Miriam Frohmeir and Phillip Harrison are all my creations. They are borrowed from other fictions and I will chase after you if you hurt them. 

Notes: "Time" is a murder mystery. Ergo, someone dies. It's a minor character, so don't panic. I make many references to the "Loving" series, so I guess it would help if you've read those. 

My deepest apologies for how long it's taking me with these pieces. If you would like, I could send you the voodoo doll of my ex. He's the one who's fucked up my RL. You can stick him as many times as you like. 

As for some background information: There are many references to the serial bombings in Atlanta and Birmingham. The first bomb occurred in Centennial Park in Atlanta during the Olympics. The FBI accused Richard Jewell and then later retracted it; Mr. Jewell sued everything that moved and he and his family are now independently wealthy. A second bomb exploded outside of an abortion clinic in Buckhead, then a third outside of a gay bar in Midtown. The last bomb struck an abortion clinic in Birmingham, Alabama. Currently, the FBI is searching the mountains of North Carolina for Eric Rudolph, who they believe committed these crimes. 

As always, I couldn't do this without betas. I have fantastic, incredible betas who I'm sure have capes in their closests and save the world on occasion -- Rie, Russ and Christie. Thanks, thanks and thanks again! 

This piece is dedicated to Rie, Thedavamp and Virginia for holding my hand during this "unfortunate calamity," as well as to everyone in the group for their thoughtful emails of support. Many nights I almost gave up on finishing it, but one of you guys would give me a gentle prodding, and remind me why we do this in the first place. I'm sorry I haven't written everyone back yet, at least a thank you note, for the kind words. Also a huge thanks to Pixter, who keeps me focused in RL and told me several times to get up off my butt and finish this. This story is taking on a decidedly Atlanta flavor, so here's a wave to all my compatriots in the Atlanta Sen-Fen group! 

Time wise -- this takes place before Megan Connor joins the force. 

Summary: Collin's past comes back to haunt Jim and Blair as two strangers arrive in Cascade determined to separate them. 

Warnings: extreme violence, extreme language, and some dirty parts thrown in. Major angst factor. Drug use. Death scene of a minor character. 

My thanks to Caitlin, carbook, Patt and Angie T. for their help in writing the house rules scene! 

* * *

Time Does Not Bring Relief II -- part one  
By Kadru 

Inside Collin's second-story apartment, Blair stood perfectly still in front of the picture window with his arms crossed just below his chest, his breathing monotone, his muscles listless. His mind drifted as he watched the night rain fall. Heavy raindrops splattered on the glass and clung to the window screen, reflecting like jewels the amber light of the street lamps. Lightly his finger traced the crosses of the windowpanes -- so hard and unyielding. In the sinister light, the skin of his hands seemed almost olive green in complexion. He remembered that September had been unseasonably warm and sunny. /My happy time,/ he thought bitterly. But now a cold October brought unusually heavy rain. 

A soft nudge on his shoulder broke his morose thoughts. Blair turned and saw Collin holding out a mug of hot tea for him. He could smell the thick fragrance of Earl Grey, and he knew Collin had spooned in clover honey as usual. After Blair took the tea, Collin sipped his own mug and said with his soft southern drawl, "Into each life, a little rain must fall." 

Blair quickly shot back a dissatisfied frown. 

Undaunted, Collin raised a sly eyebrow, his long auburn hair masking half of his face. Sipping again from his hot tea, he asked, "So?" 

"So what?" 

"So what's going on between you and Jim?" 

"I guess we've separated," Blair answered sadly as he walked away from the window, sitting down on the sofa beside Collin's black-haired cousin, Sebastian. Sebastian eyed Blair warily, then glanced over at his cousin. 

Collin's expression was an unreadable mask as he followed Blair to the plush chair across from him. "Blair, sweetie, gay people don't separate. We break up, we get back together, we break up, we get back together -- " 

"Fine, then." Blair's voice was tired. "Use whatever semantics you want. We've broken up and we're waiting to get back together." 

"Why?" Collin asked, then looked over at Sebastian who sat quietly on the other end of the sofa, uncomfortably examining his fingernails. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and Collin could tell Sebastian was emotionally exhausted. "Why are you waiting?" He asked, more to Sebastian than Blair. 

"Jim's freaking out, Collin. I mean, I know he loves me, but he's just scared and he doesn't want me to get hurt." 

Sebastian's voice came out cold and mechanical. "Hasn't he hurt you already?" Then he bit his fingernail. Collin glared at him. 

Blair shrugged his shoulders. "Granted, I'm like so not a happy camper right now, but you guys haven't seen Jim. He's so upset about these threats. I'm just . . . giving him some time. That's all. Once he calms down, he'll return to his senses. I know Jim. He's so overprotective that he makes these kinds of decisions about my safety without asking me. When he gets over this initial reaction and he knows I'm safe, then we'll get back together." 

"Sounds like you've rationalized this way too much," Collin said. 

"It's just what makes sense. If I don't remain level-headed about this, then I'm no better than Jim." 

"And what does your heart say?" 

Blair stared at Collin, but he didn't say anything. 

But Collin wouldn't give up. "I just don't understand how you are acting. If this is the man you love, aren't you going to fight for him?" 

"Excuse me," Sebastian interrupted with a raised hand. "I'm sorry, man. I'm not saying this to be mean. But maybe you're right. Maybe you should give Jim some space. Let him be by himself for a little while. Let him see what he takes for granted." 

Collin squeezed his mug, his knuckles turning white. He fought the urge to fling hot tea on his cousin then strangle him with his bare hands. He interrupted. "It's been a week since he made you leave, and I haven't seen you really doing anything about it. What _are_ you doing, Blair?" 

"Same as last week. I go into the station in the morning, then teach class in the afternoon." 

"Are you still riding with him?" 

"As much as he'll let me. He's started to schedule his time at the desk doing paperwork in the morning so we won't be out on the streets together. I think I'm going to switch with one of the other TA's so I can put in some afternoon time. Throw a wrench in the pattern. At least for a little while." 

Sebastian asked, "Won't that just piss Jim off more?" 

"To be quiet honest, no one can be more pissed off than I am right now." Blair anxiously ran his hands through his hair. "Jim had no right to make this kind of decision about our relationship on his own. I may be acting like a saint in all this, but I can tell you that I am like _so majorly_ pissed off right now and there's going to be hell to pay when this is all said and done." 

"That's what I meant," Sebastian replied. He stroked his black goatee. "Is it going to do y'all any good to be even madder at each other?" 

"I hear you, Bass, but I don't care. I'm going to stay in Jim's face until he comes to his senses." Blair set his mug down on the coffee table. "Excuse me. Tea's kicking in." He stood up and walked to the bathroom. 

Once he was gone, Sebastian turned a hard, angry look toward his cousin. "Why the fuck did you invite me over here?" 

"Do you like Blair?" Collin asked coldly. 

"What kind of question is that?" 

"One I'd like to hear an answer to." 

"What I think about Blair makes no difference to what we have to accomplish." 

"Spoken like a true killer," Collin said with some bitterness. "But I'd just like to know --" 

"-- I'm not a killer --" 

"-- You live with one. And you are certainly assisting him now. Were you assisting him in Atlanta when he destroyed my life?" 

Sebastian ran his finger around the collar of his gray turtleneck. "Collin, Didion didn't know about you and Brian until it was too late. Brian came on to Didion and Didion took advantage of it." 

Collin turned away at the thought of Brian approaching Didion for sex. He swallowed hard, then spoke. "I just have to know this, Bass. When did you know what was happening? When did you become involved?" 

Sebastian looked down into his mug. "When Brian stopped seeing Didion, Didion asked me out. We started seeing each other then. Hindsight tells me that he was just doing that to keep tabs on the situation, but I didn't know it then." 

"You went out with the man even though you knew he had just ruined my life with Brian." 

"Oh, come off it, Collin. You hated your life with Brian. At the time I thought it was a good thing that you and Brian had broken up. And Brian wasn't seeing Didion any longer, either. I didn't see it was all that wrong. Besides, it was just sex at first. I didn't _want_ to fall in love with him or anything. He was just a hot man who asked me out. Falling in love with him was the last thing I expected. Don't you remember what I was like then?" 

Collin looked away. 

Sebastian continued. "I was still living with the guilt of what happened to the last guy I had fallen in love with." 

"I would have thought that causing your first lover to kill himself would have made you think twice before getting involved with a killer." 

Sebastian's eyes narrowed into vicious slits. "That was fucking low, even for you!" The two stared angrily at each other before Sebastian parried, "Did you know that I was the one who asked Didion to run into the fire to save your life?" 

Collin tried to wave off the argument. 

"Brian was searching for you in the wrong part of the house, and Didion knew it. He knew where you were, and he's the one who saved you." Just then Blair walked out of the bathroom. Sebastian waited for him to sit down, then made it obvious he was looking around Collin's apartment when he said, "I don't recognize most of the things in your apartment. Didn't anything survive the fire?" 

Collin studied him, then said indifferently, "I've come to realize I lost more than I expected." 

"Fire?" Blair asked. "What fire?" 

Collin stood up and went into the kitchen without answering him. Sebastian leaned in close to say, "Brian and Collin's house caught on fire." 

  

In the kitchen, Collin poured out his lukewarm tea and ran more water into the kettle. He squeezed his fingers into a fist to stop his hands from trembling. He wasn't sure if it was anger or fear that unnerved him so. /Maintain control,/ he said to himself. /Maintain control. I have to keep Blair and Bass together. I have to make Bass see what he's doing to Blair. He can't run away this time. He has to see the consequences of his actions./ He looked through the bar that separated the kitchen from the den and saw his cousin on the sofa next to Blair. As he watched him, noticing how pale his dark-haired cousin had become in so short a time, Collin wasn't sure what he felt for Sebastian. /Are you even worth saving?/ 

Sebastian reached out along the back of the couch and gently touched Blair on the wrist, cautiously, almost as if he thought Blair might burn him. When he got Blair's attention, he said, "Hey, I got tickets to Tori Amos. You wanna go?" 

Still in the kitchen, Collin listened to the conversation intently. 

"Tori Amos, huh?" Blair looked a little intrigued. "What night?" 

"This Wednesday." 

Blair was silent for a few seconds before responding. "Sure." 

Collin slipped unnoticed into his bedroom. When he returned, he carried an acoustic guitar that was painted a garish blue. He dropped it in Sebastian's lap and said, "Remember this?" 

"The blue guitar! You still have it!" 

"One of the few things to survive the fire." 

Sebastian ignored the comment and asked, "Do you still use it as a test?" He strummed a chord before tuning it. 

"Yes," Collin answered. He entered the kitchen and returned with a new mug of tea before sitting back down in the chair. 

"What kind of test?" Blair asked. 

Sebastian raised one eyebrow. "Well, I guess _you_ failed." 

"Failed what? I'm lost here." 

"You do not play things as they are," Collin quoted in a cold monotone. 

To which Sebastian answered, gracefully, "Ah, things as they are, are changed, when played upon the blue guitar." 

"You have like _so_ lost me." 

Sebastian smiled, then strummed the guitar pleasantly. "You see, Blair. Wallace Stevens wrote a poem called, 'The Blue Guitar.'" 

"So what's the test?" 

"If you recognize The Blue Guitar, then you pass." 

"Pass what?" 

"Collin's husband test. He always said _after Brian_ that he'd never fall for another man who wasn't literate enough to recognize The Blue Guitar." Then Sebastian inquired, "Did Ian pass?" 

"Yes. But then Ian's very literate. However, this philistine," Collin pointed to Blair, "thought Ian was a serial killer just because he could quote Emily Dickinson." 

"Did Ian tell you that?" Blair asked defensively. 

"Of course." 

"I'm never going to live that down." 

"When do you want me to pick you up?" Sebastian asked Blair. 

"Concert starts at 8? How about 6? We can get some dinner and a few beers." 

"That works." 

"So why isn't Didion going with you?" Collin probed. 

Sebastian glanced at him with a cold expression before smiling, "Didion's not much for bright spotlights and loud music." 

"Neither is Jim." Then a wave of sadness came over Blair after he said Jim's name out loud, sharing something intimate about his lover and suddenly knowing that he really didn't have any rights to him any longer. The sadness clung to him like a shadow as he silently drank his tea. 

* * *

Jim had no idea when the rain had stopped. Suddenly the room was darker than it had been, and his entire body ached. He rubbed his temples. /Damnit. I zoned out again./ He remembered looking out the balcony windows, watching the raindrops strike the glass, listening to the pleasant tapping sound, trying to forget that devastated look in Blair's eyes when he ordered him to move out. Standing, Jim swayed slightly, and he grabbed the back of the couch to fix his balance. When he stood up straight, he noticed the clock in the kitchen -- an hour. He had zoned for over an hour. /Damn./ 

He knew he had to get to the bathroom as quickly as possible. He had forced Blair out last week. Since that time, Jim had found himself zoning more often. Unwilling to call Blair, unwilling to bring him back into his life while whoever threatened his guide still remained a mystery, Jim had gone to Ian instead. Dr. Ian Yoshito was the only other friend besides Blair and Simon who knew Jim was a sentinel. Years ago, Ian had been unwittingly involved in a secret military project that tested genetic engineering on soldiers -- soldiers who later became sentinels and who then died of cancer. When Jim had realized he might have been one of them, he had enlisted Ian's help. 

Now that Blair wasn't there to be his guide, Ian was the only other person he could think of to help him control his zone outs. But Ian was at a loss. All he could do was prescribe painkillers to combat the intense migraines that followed Jim's zones. By the time Jim reached the medicine cabinet, he felt the first cruel spike slam into his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut. This last zone had been the longest yet, and Jim felt his knees buckle as his body collapsed underneath him. Helplessly, he watched the two green pills slip from his fingers and bounce against the tiles. No dignity left, he started to cry. The pain was so intense, he couldn't even move his hands to grip his head. 

* * *

After Sebastian left Collin's apartment, the two scholars sat quietly grading papers. Time slipped past, until Blair suddenly felt someone staring at him. He looked up to see Collin, still in the easy chair, watching his roommate intently. "What?" Blair asked. 

"Nothing. Just thinking." 

"About what?" 

"I'm worried." 

Blair rolled his eyes, tossing the exam blue book aside. "Out with it. What about?" 

"You. Who'd you think?" 

Blair shrugged his shoulders. "I'm okay." 

"I wish I believed that." 

"I don't need a mother." 

Collin frowned. "Well if you do, don't look at me. First it would take a miracle of God, and second, who'd want to be _your_ mother?" Collin set his own stack of blue books down on the floor. "But somebody needs to worry about you." 

"I'm fine." 

"Blair, do you love Jim?" 

"Collin, this isn't fair." 

"Why?" 

"Because I'm not making the choices here. Yes, I love Jim. He's so . . . special. Of course I love him. Knowing him has been like . . . some kind of gift." 

"And so you're just gonna move in with me without a fight." 

"Collin, we've gone over this already. Let me work through this one day at a time." When Collin looked away, Blair asked, "So what's going on between you and Bass?" 

"Bass? What do you mean?" 

"I may not be poetic enough to recognize Wallace Stevens, but I am an anthropologist, and I know people. The body language between you and Bass is like so obvious." 

"We're still going back and forth over Didion." 

"There's more to it than that." 

"No there isn't." 

"Collin, the two of you have never been this tense. You guys have always carried on this secret language between each other, but tonight, it sounded hateful." 

"It's just stress. I'm worried about you. And trying to balance wanting to see you and Jim get back together, and trying to pull Didion and Bass apart, it's just wearing me thin." 

"Then stop." 

"Stop what? Hoping you and Jim will get back together?" 

"No. Didion and Bass. Stop trying to pull them apart." 

Collin just sighed out loud. 

"I'm serious, Collin." 

"I thought you didn't like Didion. You saw the black eye he gave Bass." 

"Yes, I saw a black eye. But I have no proof that it was Didion's fault. Sometimes I suspect he did. Most times, I don't think it fits his personality. I've seen a lot of abused people while working with Jim. Bass just doesn't fit the profile. He's not skittish around Didion. In fact, Bass seems to gravitate towards him whenever he's around. Didion gives him a lot of freedom. Most abusers keep their victims on a short leash. And they seem very affectionate towards each other. That just isn't in keeping with an abusive relationship." 

"Then how do you account for the black eye? Surely you saw through that stupid excuse about slipping on the floor and hitting the pool railing?" 

"Yeah, you're right. That didn't jive. But I don't think Didion did it to him. Something's going on, but I just can't figure it out." 

"Blair, I know Didion comes off as a nice guy, but I've known him longer. He's cold, calculating, and manipulative. They used to call him Sad Sach around the station all the time because he never smiled." 

"They? You mean the cops in Atlanta?" 

"Yeah. He was always so mean and gruff and he never had a nice word to say about anybody." 

"Sounds like Jim when I first met him." 

"It's different, Blair." 

"And he seems to smile a lot now." When Collin didn't respond, Blair added, "Admit it. Didion smiles a lot. He's very friendly and open." 

"Maybe he is, but I don't trust it." 

"Do you think that possibly Bass is having a good influence on him?" 

Collin just tossed his head back and forth with a frustrated frown, as if he was tired of hearing this. 

"Tell me what he did to you, in Atlanta." 

"He screwed around with my partner!" Collin snapped. 

"Bass says you were unhappy to begin with. Were you?" 

Collin remained silent. 

"Tell me what happened, Collin." 

Collin rose and stood before the picture window with his arms crossed and his back to Blair. "Did Bass tell you that Didion didn't know Brian was with someone?" 

"Didion told me." 

"I don't believe that was true. I believe Didion knew all along. I suspect he was looking for a gay cop in Atlanta and he discovered us. Then he enjoyed seeing the two of us falling apart. Once we were split, he didn't give Brian or I another moment's notice. Brian started dating another cop, one that I liked a lot. His name was Scott. Scott was one of those gifted cops, you know, like Jim. He just seemed to always have the right hunches. And he was so quiet, and sensitive. He always knew what you were feeling, and the victims loved him. No one really knew he was gay, but Brian and I did. They started seeing each other after we broke up, but somehow the department found out. Things got really tense there for a while, and Scott -- Scott killed himself, with his own revolver." 

"Shit, man, that's awful." 

"I know Didion was involved." 

"How?" 

"I'm not ready to go into that, Blair. I've never told this to another living soul. And I don't think Didion would let me." 

Blair could see his friend was shaking. He stood up, came closer, and touched his roommate's arm. Collin jerked, then calmed down slightly, but not before pulling away. 

* * *

As Sebastian entered the large living room in their mansion that overlooked Cascade, he noticed Didion standing, his legs slightly spread apart, staring into the darkness. Sebastian admired him for a moment -- his tall body, the curve of his shoulders and muscled arms, his short brown hair with blond highlights. He didn't bother to sneak up on the other man, knowing his lover could hear and smell him coming, so he simply wrapped his arms around Didion's waist. Without moving, Didion asked, "So how did it go with Collin?" 

"Weird." 

"And this is unusual?" 

"Maybe. He's up to something, but I can't figure out what it is." 

Didion arched his eyebrow. "What makes you think he's up to something?" 

"First we fight -- I mean, really fight -- and then he doesn't speak to me for what? A week? -- And then he calls me up and asks me to come over? No, that doesn't make sense. He's up to something." 

"What do you think it could be?" 

"Knowing what a drama queen Collin is, he probably wants me to feel guilty and have an existential crisis about Blair and Jim." Sebastian pulled away and moved closer to the fireplace. 

/You do feel guilty,/ Didion thought as he watched his lover stare at the flames. /You have to. Because I feel guilty, too./ Didion rubbed his temples and thought /Jesus, what's happening to me?/ He decided to change the subject. "Lee Whitmore is in place." 

"I figured he was. Collin mentioned that he ran into him at the station." 

"Did I tell you he propositioned me . . . in front of Jim?" 

"No." Sebastian smiled weakly. "I'm not surprised. The man's a whore." 

"You would know," Didion half-heartedly teased him as he came closer. "You were the one who slept with him first." 

"Hey! Give me a break, I was sleeping with anybody then. I slept with you, didn't I?!" They shared a sweet smile before Sebastian continued, "And he is a good looking man. Admit it. You enjoyed sleeping with him, too." Sebastian rubbed Didion's chin. "At least he's a _predictable_ little whore." 

"I don't know what I feel worse for -- breaking Jim and Blair up -- or turning Lee on the both of them." 

"Lee. Definitely Lee." 

"Did Blair look okay? I mean, after the e-coli?" 

"Yeah. He's fine." 

"Good." Didion pulled away to sit down on the fur rug. 

"How did you pull that off, anyway? Without getting Jim sick, too?" Sebastian asked as he joined him. 

Didion wrapped his arm around Sebastian and pulled him tight. "I injected it into a fortune cookie. Then I told the waiter that Jim had paid for a special fortune cookie, one with a certain message printed inside. He was to make sure that Blair received the one I handed to him." 

"That was too risky. What if Jim goes back and questions them." 

"I'm sure he already has. He'll be looking for a man with long, dark brown hair, brown eyes, glasses and a beard." 

* * *

Blair watched the elevator doors close in front of him and he pressed the 6th floor button. Lately, every time he got into the elevator at the station, he felt a little nervous at the thought of confronting Jim. A dark feeling filled his chest, and his stomach churned with anticipation. Each day Jim's reaction was slightly different. Sometimes he seemed agitated and angry, other times depressed, and on some occasions, he completely ignored Blair's presence altogether. Just once, Blair wanted him to say, "I'm sorry. Please come back." So far, it hadn't happened, and each day that he didn't hurt more and more. His thoughts drifted back to the message someone had typed onto his laptop's screensaver: "Divide et impera." /Divide and conquer. Someone is trying to separate us for a reason, and another person knows it. Well, I'm not about to let this happen . . . no matter how awkward this is. I'm going to stick with Jim every step of the way. Period./ Blair shifted back and forth on his feet, his hands in his pocket, and he started humming a tune from the Tori Amos concert he had seen the night before. The chime of each passing floor competed with Blair's humming and he tried to hum louder. 

The doors slid open, and as Blair stepped out, he saw Henri and Rafe leaving Major Crimes. "Hey, Hairboy," Rafe called out. "How'd you like that concert last night?" And to Blair's surprise, Rafe lifted up his arms and started dancing slowly in the hallway and singing a Tori Amos tune off-key. 

Blair laughed at first, circling Rafe before he raised his own arms and tried to match his moves. 

Henri just shook his head. "You white boys have _no_ rhythm." 

Rafe slapped Blair on the shoulder and said, "Catch ya later." 

Blair continued to grin as he walked into the bullpen and headed for Jim's desk. Jim looked up at him once, then said gruffly, "I wish you wouldn't act like that in here." 

Taken aback, Blair raised one eyebrow. "Excuse me?" 

"I said, I wish --" 

"I heard what you said. Now what did you mean by it?" 

Jim waved his hand. "Nothing. Forget it." 

"No, what did you mean be that? You don't want me to act _happy_? Is that it?" Then Blair leaned in closer, and his expression was angry. "Or gay?" 

"I said to forget it," Jim barked. "I'm sorry I brought it up." 

Blair eyed him intently, then said, "You know, there was a time when you were proud of me." 

Jim flung down his pen and held his breath to keep his anger in check. Then he grabbed his coffee cup and stood. "I need some coffee." As he stormed toward the break room, he bumped into Lee Whitmore walking into the bullpen. The tall, muscular blond smiled, his light eyes sparkling. 

"Hey, slow down, there, Jimmy," Lee said with his hand on Jim's chest. "I was just coming up here to find you." 

"What for?" 

"I got a lead on a militia leader here in Cascade and I want to go by his place and question him." 

Jim just nodded and returned to his desk. Blair looked up and asked, "Where are we going?" 

Lee answered, "You aren't going anywhere, sport--" 

" _Sport_?" 

"This is just Jimmy and me." 

"No. That is not how this works. I ride with Jim. I'm his partner and I go where he goes." 

"Not this time." 

"No. Every time. I have official observer status here and I am authorized to ride with Jim." 

"For the Cascade PD, hot shot, but not the Feds. Militia leaders are highly unstable and unpredictable. I won't approach one by myself, and I certainly don't want a civilian nearby. Understand me?" 

They stared at each other, hard, waiting for the other to blink. Lee rolled his eyes and mumbled, "I don't have time for this. Grab your gun, Jimmy. Let's go." 

Jim looked at Blair for a second, then he offered weakly, "Uhm, you could start on the Waterstone case files." 

"Fuck you!" 

He winced slightly at Blair's insult then tensed his jaw. Without looking him in the eye, Jim strapped his holster over his shoulder and followed Lee out of the bullpen. 

After they left, Simon stepped over. He had been standing at Rhonda's desk during the entire argument. "Hey, Sandburg." 

"What?!" 

Simon raised one eyebrow at Blair's tone of voice. Not noticing it, Blair glanced over and held up both of his hands in frustration. "Did you just see that?" 

"Yeah. Nothing I could do about it, though. Agent Whitmore's calling the shots on that case." 

"Well, why isn't he staying at the Federal Building instead of hanging around here? And why doesn't he have a partner?" 

"Come on, Sandburg. You know the answer to that. This Eric Rudolph guy is giving the Feds a run for their money. They know the bomber here is just a copy cat. Why send two agents to figure that out?" 

"Yeah, well how long is it going to take him? Jeez." Blair lifted the stack of files out of Jim's inbox and started looking for the Waterstone file. 

"Sandburg." 

"Yes sir?" 

"I believe your position here at this station is as an observer." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"It means, kid, that you observe." 

"And?" 

"And last time I looked, I didn't think I was paying you to file." 

"Uhm, no offense, Simon, but you don't pay me squat." 

Simon leaned over the desk. "For someone as sharp as you are, you sure don't catch my drift. You observe, Sandburg. I pay Jim to file." 

Blair looked at the files, then back at Simon, then down at the files again before he nodded. Dropping the folders on the desk, he reached for his backpack. "Thanks, Simon." 

"Wait up, Sandburg." Simon leaned in close so that no one else in the bullpen could hear him. "What's up with you and Jim." 

Blair swallowed hard, then answered, "Jim kicked me out of the loft." 

"He what?" 

"Yeah. And out of other things." Blair swung his backpack over his shoulder while Simon stared at him with his mouth slightly open. 

/But you still come in every day to do your job./ "Damn. That's tough. Anything I can do?" 

"No. I'm handling it. Thanks, though." Blair turned to leave. 

"Catch you later, kid." Simon stuck his cigar back in his mouth and returned to his office. 

* * *

The address Lee had received was on the south side of Cascade, in the squalid neighborhood of Durman Point. Iron gates guarded storefront doorways, and heavy black bars covered the windows. Spiral swirls of painted graffiti marked walls already decorated with torn posters. Jim parked the truck as close to the address as he could. The building that matched the street number made him frown slightly. Herman's Gun Shop. Lee opened the passenger side door and stepped onto the sidewalk, looking back at Jim once before putting on a hard, stern face. Together, they entered the shop. 

The room was crowded with shelves, and the walls were lined with gun cabinets, all of them covered by glass behind diamond-shaped metal gates. Jim heard a slight electric thrum, and when he glanced up, he saw one of the fluorescent bulbs flicker. Feeling his senses reacting, Jim grew nervous, and his gut clenched. /Ah, shit, not here. Now's not the time for this to start bothering me./ Jim sucked in a hard breath to calm himself, then shook off the apprehension. In the background, he could hear the rhythmic thump of some sort of machine. 

Behind the counter, an older man, overweight with long white hair and a bald spot in the center of his crown, noticed them enter. Jim heard his heartbeat accelerate and could even feel his body temperature rise. "Can I help you with something?" he asked. 

Lee pulled out a slip of paper. "Is Daniel Jenkins here?" 

"Who wants to know?" The older man puffed his chest defiantly, but Jim could hear that he was still nervous, and the smell of fear was oppressive. 

"I do," Lee answered. "Is he here?" 

"What are you? Cops?" 

Lee leaned over the counter, allowing his jacket to fall open slightly for the older man to see the holster strapped over his flannel shirt. "I'm not. Now go get me Jenkins." 

The older man scurried towards the back room, and when he opened the door, the heavy metallic scent of printing ink struck Jim's senses. He tried to ignore it. A few seconds later, the industrial thumping sound ceased, and another man, middle-aged and in good shape, stepped out while wiping black ink from his hands. "You want something?" he barked at Lee with dark, scowling eyes. 

"What is that back there? A printing press?" 

"Who wants to know?" 

"I take it you're Daniel Jenkins?" 

"Yeah." 

"What are you doing with a printing press?" 

"It's called the Freedom of the Press, man." 

The older man who had been guarding the front counter slipped between Jenkins and the wall, moving to the far corner of the room. 

"Lee Whitmore." He flashed his badge. "Federal agent." 

"I figured as much." 

Jim followed the older man's movements, but as he did, the metallic inks overwhelmed him and he was lost in the intensity of the odor. The older man stood still, and Jim watched the barely noticeable play of shadows on his bald head caused by the flickering fluorescent bulb. Suddenly the man was gone. Only the white ribbon of light snaking across his pink, freckled skin existed -- no other sensation or thought. 

He didn't notice the older man's heartbeat race and his breathing quicken. Because for the older man, Jim's stare didn't seem vacant. It seemed to drill deeply into him, focused, unyielding. Panic set in hard. "What?" he finally cried out, his hands waving. 

Jim remained motionless, staring. 

"What are you fucking looking at?" 

Lee turned to see Jim's unmoving eyes. "Jimmy?" 

"You wanna stare at something? You wanna stare at something?" The older man reached behind his back. "Stare at this!" His shaking hands aimed a small pistol directly at Jim who didn't seem in the least bit afraid, still staring hard at the man. 

"Ellison! Get down!" Lee shouted as he drew his own gun. "Freeze! Drop the weapon!" 

Daniel Jenkins dashed into the back room. The older man cocked the pistol and fired. The bullet grazed Jim in the shoulder and the sharp burn of the wound snapped him free of the zone. Lee's gun blasting so close to his ear startled him even more and Jim trembled slightly as he fell to the floor, the first spike of an angry migraine slamming into his skull. 

* * *

The nurse applied one last adhesive strip to Jim's gauze bandage and asked, "So how's Blair doing?" 

/Jeez, the two of us have been in here too damn often./ Jim eyed her impatiently and barked, "Are you done yet?" 

Snapping her hands on her hips, she muttered, "Why he even puts up with someone like you, I'll never understand." She tossed the roll of tape on the tray and said, "Whatever." She handed him his shirt. "He's waiting outside for you." 

Jim rolled his head around in exhausted frustration. /Blair? Why is he here?/ Reluctantly, he buttoned his shirt, stood up and placed his hand on the swinging door to the emergency room waiting area. For a few seconds he debated not going out that way but instead finding a back exit somewhere. The last time he had seen Blair had been at the station, when he had asked him to file. /Jesus, Jim, could you be any more condescending? Come on. I mean, you kicked him out, for Christ's sake./ Jim took a deep breath. /I did it for a reason. I did it to save his life./ Swallowing hard, Jim straightened his back. /I have to keep doing this. I have to make Blair live a safe life. Even if he hates me for it./ 

Through the door, he could easily hear Simon and Lee's voices. "What's wrong with Ellison? Is he sick or something? He just stood there, staring at this guy. Freaked him out. Can't say I blame him." 

The detective pushed open the door and watched their reactions. Lee seemed furious, but Jim didn't care. Simon's expression was a mix of concern and anger. Blair though, hung back from the group, nervous and upset and watching Jim carefully but not saying anything. 

Lee was the first to speak. "Jimmy, what the hell happened to you out there?" 

Jim ignored him, and as he tried to walk past, Simon grabbed him by the arm. "Not so fast, detective." 

"I'm fine, sir." 

"You got shot, Jim." 

"I said I'm fine, sir." 

A new voice startled them all. "I'll bloody well be the judge of that." 

Everyone in the room turned at the stiff, formal British accent. Dr. Ian Yoshito approached Jim and said, "Let's go back into ER and let me examine you." 

"I just want to go home, Ian." 

"You zoned again, didn't you?" 

"Again?!" Blair immediately came to life, gently pulling Ian aside to stand in front of Jim. "When did you start zoning?" 

"Zoning?" Lee asked. "What the hell is 'zoning'?" 

Jim sighed and answered in a tired voice, "I'm handling it, Sandburg." 

Ian tugged at Blair's shoulder. "Can I please deal with my patient?" 

"Your patient?" 

"Jim, how's your prescription? Do you need a refill?" 

"Prescription?! What the hell's going on? Are you trying to drug him?" 

"It's just for migraines," Jim answered softly, his hand rubbing his temples. 

"And neither of you told me? How long has this been going on? How many times has it happened?" 

Finally snapping, Jim thrust his finger in Blair's face. "Back off, Sandburg. This isn't your concern anymore and I don't want you around, got it?" 

Blair stood speechless, his mouth open, his eyes wide. After the surprise and shock passed, he lowered his eyes in a pained expression, crossing his arms defensively. 

Jim turned away, unable to witness the hurt his words had caused, but he felt an angry grip on his jaw twist him back. Ian stood before him, so close Jim could feel his breath on his skin. His dark eyes pierced him. "I can't believe I just heard that come out of you. That has got to be the most bloody awful thing I have ever witnessed," he whispered for only Jim to hear. "I expect to see you in my office tomorrow at 9 a.m. sharp or I _shall_ have your captain pull you from duty. Is that understood?" 

Crushing Blair's feelings had taken the edge off Jim's anger. "Yes." 

"Excuse me," Lee interrupted, "but I believe I'm owed an explanation." 

"There is no explanation," Ian said to the agent. "Mr. Ellison is fine." 

"Then what happened?" 

"I just had a spell, Lee. I'm fine." 

"A spell. Like a fit or something? And you let him be a detective?" he directed at Simon. 

"I beg your pardon, agent! I believe I know my detectives better than you do. He has one of the best records in the city. His partner knows how to handle Jim, and THAT--" Simon poked him roughly in the chest-- "is why Sandburg rides with Jim . . . at all times." 

Lee just raised his hands in surrender. 

"If you'll excuse me," Jim said angrily, "I'm going home." 

"Jim," Ian called out to him, "about going home." 

"What now?" 

"You've been having these . . . _spells_ too often. I don't recommend you staying by yourself. At least for a couple of days." 

"I'm fine." 

"No, Jim," Blair's voice spoke up. "I think you need someone to stay with you." 

Jim leaned close to Blair. "This is not going to happen. You are not moving back in." 

Blair's voice came back mean and hard. "I wasn't offering." He then looked at Simon. "Simon? Can you?" 

"Not this week. I have Darryl." 

Lee Whitmore spoke up. "I can do it." 

Everyone looked at Lee. 

"Well, why not? I hate living in a hotel. How hard can it be, staying with Jim?" 

Simon shook his head, trying not to laugh. But Jim was not amused. "It's out of the question." 

"No it isn't, detective," Simon barked. "You haven't zoned in months. And now it's happening so often that your doctor has you on a prescription? I don't think so. You have a choice. Either let Agent Whitmore stay at your place for a while, or face desk duty. Your call." 

* * *

Collin paced his apartment with the cordless phone in his hands. "No," he said, "you have to come up now. . . . . But you know how Didion makes Bass move around so much. If you don't come up now, you're gonna miss him." He stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. "Did you know there was a Latin American summit going on here? Why don't you come up and translate. It could be some extra bucks for you." 

While the other voice on the line spoke, Collin picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the spaghetti sauce he was making for his and Blair's dinner. "Don't worry about a hotel. I'm sure Bass would love to have you stay with him. I mean, Didion's bought this huge house. He's got plenty of room." 

He balanced the wooden spoon across the pot. "No, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you stayed with him. And besides, if something happens, you can always crash with us. Come on, Miriam, drive up here. The three of us haven't gotten together since we were in Atlanta. It'll be like old times. Think how much fun we'll have. Besides, we could all use a little nostalgia. . . . . Okay, well, ask the dean if she'll help get you into the summit and foot some of the costs of staying up here. Just remember that we'll take care of where you'll stay before the summit begins. Got it? . . . . All right sweetie, but you get your ass on up here right now! Is that understood? . . . . Fine, I'll talk to you later. Love you, babe. Bye." 

Collin turned off the phone. Taking a nervous breath, he lightly tapped the phone against his lips, his eyes drilling into the linoleum floor. /Am I doing the right thing?/ 

Suddenly, the front door burst open then slammed shut as Blair tore into the apartment. He flung his bookbag on the sofa and stormed into the kitchen. He said nothing to Collin as he jerked the refrigerator door open. 

"What the hell happened to you?" 

"Beer first," Blair muttered with his head in the refrigerator. "Kvetch later." 

Collin watched Blair twist off the bottle cap and fling it angrily at the trash can, missing it completely -- the bottle cap rattling on the floor. After his roommate finished a heavy swig, Collin tried again. "Okay, so what happened?" 

"Jim got shot." 

"He what?!" 

"He's fine. He just got grazed in the shoulder." 

"How did it happen?" 

"He was out with Agent Whitmore. Simon was the one to call me." 

"Is that what's got you so pissed off?" 

"No. I'm pissed because Jim's been zoning out and he didn't tell me. And Ian knew about it, too, and he didn't tell me, either." Blair slipped out of the kitchen and into the den. 

"Zoning? Why should you care if Jim zones out? We all zone out from time to time." 

"No, it's different." 

"How different?" 

"Jim . . ." Blair waved his hands in small circles, trying to come up with a good explanation. "Jim has this kind of . . . condition . . . where he can sometimes . . . lose track of what's going on. He ends up staring into space and someone has to snap him out of it." 

"And . . . that's why Ian is involved?" 

"Yes." Blair flopped down on the sofa. When he glanced up, he noticed Collin looked down at the floor, his mind concentrating on a thought that obviously disturbed him. "What?" Blair asked finally. "What is it?" 

Without changing the expression on his face, Collin turned around, his eyes still directed at the patterns on the floor as he walked back into the kitchen. /That's . . . so . . . weird./ 

Blair, exhausted from the day, just waved Collin off before searching for the television's remote control. But in the kitchen, Collin suddenly looked back at Blair. /Scott used to do that. . . . He even saw a doctor because of it. Why is that connected? . . . And he did it worse right before he killed himself./ 

Collin looked back at the bubbling spaghetti sauce. /Shit, Atlanta really is happening all over again! And this time, Jim's the one who's gonna die! What the hell am I supposed to do? I've got to do something!/ He quickly lost his appetite. 

* * *

Carrying two mugs of coffee, Sebastian entered Didion's office. Didion caught the scent of amaretto and cinnamon, and it made him glance up slightly before turning his attention back to the unrolled blueprints on his desk. Sebastian moved behind him, then set Didion's cup on the desk, close to his right hand. Didion lifted the mug, took one sip, his eyes never leaving the blueprint as his vision zipped across its surface. Sebastian peered over his shoulder and read the legend. 

Cascade Convention Center. 

"Where did you get this?" he asked. 

Didion still did not look up as he answered, "The Project." 

"Do you have the security details, yet?" 

The assassin merely pointed to a second map that lay folded to the side. Sebastian opened it, studying the layout. "Which version is this?" 

"The final," Didion answered with a groan as he stretched his back, the vertebrae popping . "The lower-level CIA and Secret Service agents are using a version that's four steps away from this one. But this will be the final placement." 

Sebastian checked his watch. "How much longer do you think you'll be?" 

"Not much longer. I've memorized most of this. I just need to finish the rest, then burn them." 

* * *

Lee dropped his bags just inside the door and looked around the loft. "Hey, man, this is nice." 

Jim only noticed the suitcases in a heap and thumbed toward Blair's old room. "The guest bedroom's in there." 

Not noticing Jim's irritation, Lee left his bags and crossed the room. He pulled back the French doors, glanced inside, then commented, "Kinda small. Is _your_ bed any bigger?" 

Jim wrinkled his forehead. "What?!" 

"Can't we just bunk together?" 

"No! And pick your bags up before somebody trips over them." 

"Who the hell's gonna trip over them?" Lee looked back at his suitcases. "You don't have that many people coming through, do you?" 

"Just do it." 

"Fine, fine." Lee quickly picked up his suitcases and tossed them onto the floor near Blair's old futon. "You got any beer?" 

Jim turned his back to roll his eyes. "In the fridge." 

"You want one?" he asked as he searched. 

"I need one," Jim mumbled. 

"What was that?" 

"Yeah. Bring me one." Jim collapsed on the sofa. 

Lee came around, handed Jim an opened bottle, then noticed the beige and lilac paperback book with the picture of a wistful young woman on it. He picked up the book while snickering. "The Collected Sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay? Did Blair really read this sort of sissy stuff?" 

Jim snatched the book from his hands and set it down on the end table beside him. " _I_ bought that book. It's mine." 

"Whoa. Sorry." He flopped his feet on the coffee table without taking off his boots. "So, what the hell am I supposed to do if you wig out again?" 

"You don't have to do anything. It won't happen again." Jim cuffed Lee's legs with the back of his hand. "And take your goddamn shoes off the coffee table." 

"What's up with you, man? I thought I was doing you a favor." 

"Look, there are some rules here." 

"Rules?" 

"Yeah, house rules." 

"Like what?" 

"For one," Jim pointed at his boots, "Take your shoes off and keep them by the door." 

"Like a Japanese restaurant?!" 

Jim ignored his comment. "And don't flush the toilet after 10." 

"Ten p.m. or ten a.m.?" 

"Ten at night." 

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?" 

"Flush in the morning." 

"When does the no-flushing rule stop?" 

"When I wake up." 

"What if it's after ten p.m. and you're still awake?" 

Jim rolled his eyes. "And if you want to listen to music in your room, don't let it get so loud that I can hear it out here." 

"Is there a stereo in there?" 

"No." 

"Then what would I listen to?" 

"Just in case you have a walkman or a boombox or something." 

"Well, I don't." 

"And if you bring home any leftovers, put them in the red Tupperware containers. And don't eat mine. Those are in blue." 

Lee waved his hand, laughing. "Hold it. Just forget it. Jimmy, you need to relax, man. No wonder you're having seizures." 

"I'm not having seizures!" 

"Look, I've heard of anal, but color coding the Tupperware?" 

"Forget it," Jim rose from the sofa. "I'm going to bed." 

"Bed? It's not even nine o'clock." 

"Lee, I've been shot. I'm tired. And I have an unexpected house guest." 

"Shit, man, you make it sound like I'm a cockroach or something." 

/Don't even comment, Jim. Just turn around and go to bed./ Just as Jim was half-way up the stairs, Lee called out, "Hey, Jimmy? You're serious, aren't you?" 

"About what, Lee?" Jim asked in a suffering voice. 

"About me sleeping on that tiny futon in there." 

"Good night, Lee." /And I hope a goddamn panther eats you,/ he thought as he finished climbing the stairs. 

* * *

That night, Blair sat on the edge of his mattress, the sheets pulled back and ready for him to slip into bed. He sighed as he looked at the empty side of his bed. It was a queen-size, and Blair had never really slept in a queen-sized bed until he started sleeping with Jim. Now it felt so uncomfortable. Blair rolled his eyes, and he flopped back on the pillow. /What's the use. I can't go to sleep./ His mind continued to focus on Jim's zone-outs, and on his gunshot wound, however minor. And, he missed him. He missed the weight of Jim's arm across his stomach at night, and he missed the heat of his body so close to him. He missed the way Jim would nuzzle into his hair, smelling him before placing a chaste kiss on the back of his neck. 

Even so, Blair had yet to cry for his lost sentinel. /It's not time to cry. I have to be strong. We will get back together, as soon as we catch whoever's threatening me. I just have to give it time./ 

* * *

The next morning, Jim rubbed his hand across his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he took each stair step slowly. He wanted a shower so badly, craved the sensation of hot water streaming across his tired muscles. He didn't take the pain killers that ER had prescribed for him. Ian said they would not interact with the migraine medication, but Jim didn't want to risk it, not without Blair here to guide him just in case mixing the drugs had an adverse effect on his senses. And while the pain in his shoulder from the bullet wound annoyed him, what kept him awake -- staring at the ceiling -- was the ever increasing understanding of how dependent he really was on Blair. He loved him. He loved him enough to die for him. He loved him enough to take Blair's spite and rage every day, if only to keep him alive so that someone else could have the chance to share this gift he had once been blessed to know. 

But Jim had made his choice. He had chosen to sacrifice his happiness for Blair's life. /But did he have to be so damned connected to me in all these other ways?/ For years now, Blair had assumed that Jim had control of his senses. That wasn't entirely true. Jim had learned to use Blair's presence to control his senses -- his guide's heartbeat had become a metronome to pattern his own natural rhythms. And Blair fed him. And Blair guarded him. Jim was not the only blessed protector in this relationship. 

Unable to sleep from worrying where his life would take him now that he was without his lover, his guide, and his best friend, Jim had stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the clock to move. Occasionally, his mind would drift into the netherworld between consciousness and dreams, but the barest hint of an anxious nightmare would jerk him awake again. 

Now, at six o'clock, Jim heard Lee stumbling around the loft and decided to crawl out of bed before the unwanted agent caused any permanent damage. At the foot of the stairs, Jim looked across the loft and saw Lee with his head buried in the refrigerator. "What are you doing?" Jim asked, exasperated. 

Lee pulled his head out. "Don't you have any groceries, man?" 

For once, Jim was glad to say, "No." 

"Let's go get some breakfast, then. I'm starving." 

"Have you taken a shower, yet?" 

"No, not yet." 

"Good," Jim replied. "I'll save you some water." As he shut the bathroom door behind him, he thought, /Yeah. Right. You'll have to chip the ice out of your hair when I'm done with you./ 

Thirty minutes later, Jim was dressed and waiting for Lee. He felt a little disturbed that Lee's gasp for air under the stream of cold water caused such sadistic glee in his heart, but he quickly got over it. When Lee finally came out, his blond hair still wet, he looked over at Jim. "I thought you said you were gonna leave me some hot water?" 

"I must of have misgauged. Sorry." He glanced down at his watch. "Hurry up if you want some breakfast. I can't be late to the station." 

"I'm coming. I'm coming. Just let me get my boots on. Do you know of a diner closer by?" 

"There's one by the waterfront." 

Jim drove them to a greasy spoon near the public market. From the large windows in the back of the restaurant, diners could look out into the sound and watch the large transport ships and freighters floating in the harbor. Jim placed his tray on the counter, slid it along the buffet, selecting his eggs and bacon along the way. He paid the cashier and moved into the back area to find a good seat. He figured if he could look out into the bay, then maybe he would have a good excuse not to listen to Lee. As he turned the corner, he spotted two familiar faces. Didion and Sebastian. And oddly enough, he felt relieved to see them. 

Didion noticed him, too. "Hey, Jim," he called out. "Fancy meeting you here." 

Jim stepped over with his tray. "Hey. Early morning for rich men, don't you think?" 

"Have a seat, Jim," Sebastian said, his voice still sleepy as he pulled out a nearby chair for him. 

"Uhm, I'd like to, but . . . Lee Whitmore's with me." 

Sebastian shoved the chair back in with his foot. "I'm sorry, Jim. I was using that chair." 

Didion smiled and winked. "Do you need us to save you?" 

"Puh-lease," Sebastian interrupted Didion before sipping his coffee. "Even you aren't _that_ much of a philanthropist." 

"So I take it you know Lee, too?" Jim asked Sebastian 

"Know him?" Didion nudged his lover in the ribs. " _He_ met the guy first. It's his fault." 

"Gimme a break. I was drunk and he was available. Who knew he was so weird?" 

"Holy shit!" At the sound of Lee's voice, all three men looked up to see him approaching. "Bass Sanders? Is that you, buddy?" He set his tray down at their table and moved around Jim to Sebastian's side. Jim and Didion both shrugged their shoulders at each other before Jim took his seat. 

Lee's voice carried throughout the small diner. "What the hell are you doing here?" He clapped Sebastian on the back. 

He coughed slightly, choking. "I live here now . . . with Didion." 

"You two? Together? Get out! When?" 

"Two and half years ago." 

"Wow!" Lee glanced around the room quickly, then whispered, "Uhm . . . say . . . how about a two on one sometime?" 

Sebastian dropped his jaw. 

"We could go back to my place." 

Sebastian calmly answered, "I seriously doubt three people can fit under a rock." 

Didion smiled at Jim. "I guess he and Collin _are_ related," he whispered. 

Jim wasn't amused. When Lee returned to his seat, Jim punched him hard in the shoulder. 

"Ow! What the hell was that for?" 

" _My_ place is not _your_ place." 

"Wait a minute." Sebastian waved his hands. "Lee is staying at your place?" 

"Under duress," Jim replied. 

"Why?" Didion asked calmly. 

"I don't want to go into it." 

"You see, Jimmy keeps having these seizures," Lee mentioned anyway. "I'm just there to watch over him." He patted Jim's shoulder. "Isn't that right, Jimmy?" 

Sebastian smiled wickedly. "Jimmy?" 

Didion, though, was much more serious. "What sort of seizures?" 

"It's nothing." 

"Ah shit!" Lee looked down at his tray. "I forgot to get a fork. Where are they, anyway?" 

"At the counter." Jim pointed. 

"Be right back." 

As they watched him leave, Didion asked, "How'd you get hooked up with him?" 

"That bomb that went off last month. The Feds sent him in." Jim bit into his toast. "I guess he knows all of you, then?" 

"What do you mean?" Didion asked. 

"Well, he seemed to know Collin a few weeks ago at the station." 

Sebastian admitted, "I met him at a bar right before the Olympics." 

"And I met him at the police station in Atlanta." 

Lee slipped back to the table and dropped his knife and fork . The raucous clatter of metal on metal shocked both Jim and Didion as they cupped their ears before recovering. "Hey look, guys. I saw this over at the counter." He waved a lime green paper flyer around. "It's for a 3 mile run in a couple of weeks." 

"Yeah, I know." Didion handed it back to Lee. "I've already got my number." 

"Oh yeah?" Lee pushed it to Jim without looking at it. "Care to make another wager?" 

"Lee, I've beaten you once already. And that was the Peachtree Road Race. Six miles long and on the fourth of July in the Deep South." 

"Yeah, but that was over two years ago." 

"This isn't a race. It's for charity." 

"So? I can make it a race. What about you, Jimmy? You game?" 

"To run a race against you? I don't think so." 

"What? You aren't in shape? Come on. I thought you cops had to work out." 

"I run. I just don't want to race, that's all." 

Didion's eyes narrowed as his mind started to scheme. "Jim, racing aside," he said. "It is for charity. You could get a lot of sponsors at the station. Think of the money you'd raise." 

"I'm not in the mood to run." 

"It could help you move past some things." 

Jim raised his eyes at Didion, staring hard, unsure whether to get angry or not. 

Sebastian, noticing the moment, asked, "So how is Blair, anyway?" 

Jim's mood soured. "He's fine," he mumbled before cutting up his eggs. 

"Forget Blair, Jimmy. What'd'ya say loser buys the rest of us dinner?" 

Jim turned his coffee cup slowly around with his fingers. "I might not like where you'd take me." 

Lee just laughed, then slapped Jim's shoulder. "That's the spirit. Let's go call and get our numbers when we get back to the station." 

Jim didn't comment, returning to his breakfast, but he glanced up to see what Didion's reaction might be. Didion sat motionless, staring forward past them with a hard, angry expression, like he had spotted someone in the diner he didn't like. Casually looking over his shoulder, Jim followed Didion's line of sight. No one in the diner seemed to be looking back at Didion, but from where they sat, they could see deep into the public market. Jim thought about expanding his sight distance, but he hesitated, afraid of zoning without Blair nearby. Instead, he merely asked Didion. "See something?" 

Didion's eyes shot back at Jim, and his face softened. "No." 

* * *

/Brew, damnit, brew,/ Blair chanted as he hovered over the coffee pot in Collin's kitchen. Grading intro anthropology essays was not the way he wanted to spend his Saturday. He had already fallen asleep twice on the couch when Collin's voice woke him again to tell him he was going to collect the mail to the apartments' mailboxes. 

The loud rap on the door startled him. "Collin, did you forget to take the key with you?" Blair didn't bother to look through the peephole to see who was out there, and when he threw open the door, his mouth dropped and his eyes opened wide with surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were Collin." 

The young woman standing in the doorway stood eye to eye with Blair. Long brownish-blond hair hung past her shoulders in thick waves of tightly spiraled curls. She arched her eyebrow above vivid green eyes. "That makes two of us," she said in a raspy voice. Two worn suitcases sat by her heels. "You must be Blair Sandburg." 

"I am." 

She held out her hand, gold bracelets jangling on her wrist. "I'm Miriam Frohmeir." 

"Collin's friend from Atlanta? Come in, come in. Collin stepped out to get the mail." He reached for her bags. "I just made some coffee. Do you want some?" 

"After the drive I've had, hell yes." She followed him into the apartment, her long plaid skirt swishing across her black leather boots. "So," she began, "with a name like Sandburg, you have to be Jewish." 

"Is that bad?" 

"Bad? Hell, no. There's nothing but goyim in this crowd as it is." 

Blair laughed lightly. "How do you take your coffee?" 

Joining him in the kitchen, Miriam replied, "The whole pot will be fine. What are you drinking?" 

"Hey, I've been grading freshmen essays all day. You can have some of it, but the rest is like so mine." He poured her a cup, then pointed. "Sugar's over there." 

"Black's fine." Before she took a sip, she asked, "You aren't gay, too, are you?" 

"Today I am." Then he winked. "But ask me in a week or so." 

Miriam rolled her expressive eyes. "Jesus, I'm doomed to being a fag hag." 

"How long have you known these guys?" 

"We all met when we were freshmen back in Georgia. Have they ever told you the story of how they were raised by a pack of wild Jews? Well, I'm the wild Jew." She drank from her coffee. 

"Georgia, huh? You don't have much of an accent." 

"Not like the boys, huh?" She smiled wickedly. "Shit, honey, I'm from Manhattan. How the hell I wound up in Georgia to go to school, I don't have the slightest idea. We all went to a Baptist college, and my father's a carpenter. Get it, a Jewish carpenter? Maybe that's why the good Southern Baptists gave me a scholarship. So have you seen Bass?" 

"Yeah." 

"How's he doing?" 

"Fine, I guess. I haven't known him that long, though." 

"And Didion?" 

"Yeah, I've met him, too." 

"What do you think of him?" 

"I'm not sure what to think." 

"Me neither. But Bass loves him. I guess that's enough." 

"It's not enough for Collin." 

"Tell me about it. At least you haven't had to listen to Collin ranting and raving about it for the past two years." She set her coffee cup down and ran her long-fingernails through her thick hair. 

Blair noticed the rings on most of her fingers. "What do you think happened between the two of them?" he asked. 

Miriam reared back her head with a confused expression. "What do I _think_? Hell, I was there. I saw it happen." 

"What happened?" 

Suddenly the door opened and Collin stepped inside. He saw Miriam in the kitchen with Blair. "Miriam! You're here!" 

Miriam thrust her hands on her hips, the movement emphasizing her large breasts. "I drove all the fucking way from Portland and you're not at the goddamn door to greet me? What the hell kind of hospitality is that?" 

Collin hugged her tightly. "You didn't see the throng of children spreading palm branches for you to walk on? Damnit, and I paid extra for that!" 

She kissed him on the cheek. "How've you been, sweetie?" 

"Good, and you?" 

"Not bad. Not bad. Do I get to meet this Ian character you've been gushing about for so long?" 

"Tonight. He wants us to have dinner with him." 

"I can do that. When do I get to see Bass?" 

"Tomorrow. Today you're all mine!" 

* * *

Sebastian sat at the bar in the kitchen, reading, enjoying the rare break of sunshine. Didion stopped at the doorway to stare at him -- at the play of light in his thick black hair. His lean body curved slightly over the book, and occasionally he would reach out for his coffee without once taking his eyes off the page. Didion looked down at the package he held in his hand, and immediately, he began to feel guilty. /If I had just never met you. Your life would be so much better./ 

"Who was that at the door?" 

Sebastian's question jarred him. "What?" 

His lover stood up and approached him. When he saw the familiar package in Didion's hand, he frowned. "Oh. A courier." 

Didion didn't say anything as he slipped past Sebastian, setting the package down on the bar and sitting down on one of the stools. Gently he ran his finger down the edge of the brown package. Both men knew what was inside. Another shipment of serum, in small vials, ready to be injected into Didion's veins to keep him alive, and chained to a life of killing. 

Sebastian came up behind him and placed his hand on Didion's shoulder. "You okay?" 

"You know I'm not okay." 

"I know." Sebastian kissed him on the nape. "You always get so down when these things come in." 

"Do you blame me?" 

"No. Don't take it out on me, though." 

Didion spun around on the stool and faced Sebastian. "I'm sorry." He pulled him into a tight hug. "I'm sorry for everything." 

"Don't --" 

"I'm sorry for what I've done to you. I'm sorry for taking you from your friends --" 

"Didion--" 

"I'm sorry for what happened to you in New York. I'm sorry that you have to live every day in fear that they'll target you again. I'm sorry, babe. I'm so sorry." He squeezed Sebastian tightly to his chest. 

"Didion, we're doing okay." 

"No we're not. For the first time in our lives, we've gotten close to our targets. What were we thinking? But we have to do this." He broke their embrace to hold up the package. "Look at this. This . . . this shit . . . I have to do what they tell me, or else I'm dead." He tossed the package aside. "My fucking father. If he hadn't learned about the Project, none of this would have happened to me. He wouldn't have made them turn me into this." 

"Stop it. This isn't going to do us any good." 

"I know. I know. I just . . . now it's so fucking unfair. I just . . ." He looked deep into Sebastian's eyes. "For the first time in my life, I have someone who I love, who I want to make happy, who I want to guard and protect and share everything with." 

Sebastian smiled, and he traced Didion's dimpled jaw with his finger. "I love you, too." 

"But now I have all of this . . . shit keeping me from spending my life with you." 

"Didion, we're doing fine. We're surviving." 

"But we're miserable." Didion looked away. "Or at least I am. Jim's been assigned to the Cuban delegation, and I'm going to have to see him every day. . . . Bass, I don't know if I can take much more of this. He looks like a wounded man." 

Sebastian debated saying it, but he did anyway. "Jim is a wounded man." Seeing Didion's eyes close from guilt made him regret the comment. "I think Blair's going to be okay, though." 

"What do you mean?" 

"He's strong. He's still holding out for Jim. And you know Jim's going to take Blair back once this is all said and done." 

"I hope so." 

"We just have to keep them apart for a little while, until the summit is over. Then once we're gone, they'll be back together." 

"I know. I know. It still doesn't help though. What if something happens to Jim tomorrow? What's Blair going to go through for the rest of his life?" 

"You can't think about stuff like that," Sebastian said. "I could die tomorrow. You could die tomorrow. Hell, a comet could strike the earth and destroy us all." 

"You're right." Didion straightened up in the stool. "We just need to focus. The faster we get this done, the sooner we can get out of Jim and Blair's lives. Focus. Focus." 

* * *

The next day, Didion and Sebastian lounged in their large circular living room with sections of the Sunday New York Times scattered across the cushions of their massive sofa, some sections folded on the glass coffee table in front of them. Sebastian continued to read, lounging in jeans and a tee shirt, but Didion had seen enough of the headlines. With one arm wrapped protectively around his lover's shoulders, he stared through the wall of glass, out into distant Puget Sound. His precise vision spotted a pod of orcas cresting on the dark blue water, and while he sipped his coffee, he did not lose sight of the whales. 

Then his hearing detected a car driving up. "Hey Bass?" Sebastian peered over the edge of his glasses. "I think someone's driving up." 

"You think?" 

"I hear two cars." He held up his fingers to keep Sebastian silent. "Now I recognize Collin's voice. But there's someone else with him." 

"Blair? Ian?" 

"No, it's not them. It's a woman." 

Sebastian pulled off his glasses and set them on the coffee table. 

* * *

"Jesus Christ, they fucking don't live here!" Miriam exclaimed as she took in the curves and shapes of the modernistic mansion. 

As Collin approached the front door, he called out to Miriam, "Hide behind me so he doesn't see you at first." 

Miriam pinched Collin's thin waist. "I can't hide these tits behind you!" 

"Oh, come on. At least you're short." 

"I am not short!" 

Just as Collin reached out to press the doorbell, Sebastian opened the door. "Jesus, Bass, how do you do that?" 

"Early warning system. What's up?" 

"I just thought I'd surprise you." 

"Well, it is that." 

Collin saw Didion appear behind Sebastian shoulders. "I also thought you might like to see who I convinced to come visit us." Collin slipped to the right, and Sebastian's eyes fell on Miriam's wild hair. She could barely contain her grin, and she wiggled her eyebrows playfully. 

Sebastian burst through the doorway, snatching Miriam into his arms and swinging her around before setting her down. "Miriam! Oh my god! What are you doing here?!" 

"Trying to track you down, you bum! I haven't even _seen_ you since you left Atlanta." 

"Are you still in Portland?" 

"Yep, still there. I'm trying to get out of that little community college, but you know how that is." 

"What are you doing up here?" Sebastian asked, his arm around her back as he lead her into the foyer. 

Miriam broke from Sebastian to give Didion a quick hug. "Hey, handsome. I see Bass here still has you in his clutches." 

"Regretfully so." Didion smiled in spite of the surprise. He knew Miriam hadn't really liked him at first, but her unconditional love for Sebastian meant that she accepted him. That was enough. 

"What a big fucking house!" 

"Thanks. I think." 

"So," Sebastian broke in, "what are you doing up here?" 

"Oh, it was Collin's idea actually." 

Sebastian turned to Collin with a stony glance. "Oh really?" 

"Yeah. I'm on sabbatical right now while I finish up a translation of one of Lorca's plays. Collin called up one night and told me you were living here now. That's when he reminded me that the Latin American summit is coming, so I called the dean and asked her if she thought it would be a good idea if the college sponsored me to be a translator. She thought it would be good publicity, so they're paying for my hotel room." 

"But the summit doesn't start until at least a week from now." 

Miriam turned a pleading expression towards Sebastian and Didion. "Yeah, I know. I can crash at Collin's place, but Collin told me about how big your new house was." Miriam's head dipped slightly as she said sheepishly. "I know you always said I was a rude yankee, but have you got room for me? Please?" 

Sebastian turned with a shock to Didion, but his lover's face was unreadable. "Uhm . . ." 

"I wanted to call ahead of time, but Collin said it would ruin the surprise." 

"Oh I'm sure he did." 

"Can I, Bass? I thought we could spend some time together," then her rough voice changed to a playful growl, "since you haven't come to visit me in over two years!" 

"I . . ." 

Suddenly Didion's hands were on Sebastian's shoulders. "Of course, Miriam," he said with a silky voice. "Give us your car keys, and Collin and I will bring in your bags. Bass, show her the view off the deck before it starts raining again." 

"Uhm . . . sure." 

Miriam handed Didion her keys. "Well, I see Bass is certainly rubbing off on you." She smiled, then followed Sebastian down the hallway. 

Once she was out of earshot, Didion turned on Collin sharply. "That was well played." 

Didion's cold, murderous tone robbed Collin of his voice. He swallowed hard. 

"And I believe you were warned not to interfere." The assassin came closer, and Collin, staring into Didion's hard eyes, couldn't move. "You knew damn well neither of us could turn Miriam away." 

Didion smiled evilly, and Collin tried to step back. Before he could, Didion's hand shot out and clenched the younger man's throat, squeezing his adam's apple painfully. Collin couldn't breathe or speak. "Now you listen carefully. You will find a polite way for Miriam to be out of this house in FIVE days--" he choked Collin by lifting him slightly, "--or I will personally put a bullet in Ian Yoshito's brain." 

He shoved Collin against the door, then tossed Miriam's keys at his feet. "Now, I believe you have luggage to carry." 

As Didion left to join Sebastian and Miriam, Collin rubbed the pain from his throat. He tried to keep from coughing as his heart beat fiercely. /Oh shit. Oh holy fucking shit./ 

* * *

Leaning against Miriam's car, Collin took a few minutes to regain his composure. /Five days? The summit starts then. Is something happening at the summit? Is that why Didion's here?/ He took Miriam's keys and unlocked the trunk. Staring down at her luggage, another fear rose up in him. /Oh, Miriam, what have I done to you?/ He shook his head forcefully. "No. Bass wouldn't let anything happen to her. No. This is the right thing. This is the right thing. This will keep Bass and Didion distracted while I think of something else. This has to work." He quickly snatched up Miriam's luggage and slammed the lid of the trunk. Collin dropped the luggage in the foyer and hurried down the hall to join the others. 

Miriam noticed him first. "Collin, you didn't have to do that, you know." 

"No problem," he said softly, looking over her shoulder at Didion. "I left your suitcases in the foyer." 

"Oh, I need to go get my gun out of the glove compartment. I forgot I left it there yesterday and I spent all last night worrying about it." 

"Your _what_?!" 

"Gun, honey. My gun. You don't think I drove all the way from Portland without some sort of protection, do you?" 

"I can't believe you own a gun!" 

"Collin, did you, or did you not, live with a cop for four years?" 

Collin stared at Didion as he answered. "Yeah, Miriam, I did. Then something happened." 

Miriam paled, and her hand covered her mouth. "Oh, shit, guys, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring all that up. Ah, hell, I should have known I'd stick my foot in my mouth. I'll go get the gun myself." 

"Miriam." Didion stopped her. "Don't worry about the gun. You'll be safe here. No one's going to take it out of your car. And Bass and I both have guns in the house." 

"Both of you?" Collin asked, astounded. 

"Yes." Didion eyed Collin dangerously. "I can tell you, Bass is a deadly shot." Then he added, "We both are." 

Miriam didn't seem to notice the threat. She said to Sebastian, "Are you really? When did you get so handy with a gun?" 

"Didion's been training me." 

She nudged Didion. "Well, you do come in handy. What about you, Collin?" 

"You people frighten me. All of y'all." 

"Come on. I know, I know, I should be spouting off about how dangerous handguns are, and about how 58% of all shootings occur in the home by someone you know. I know all of this. But a single woman travelling alone needs protection." Then she turned to the others. "Surely there's a shooting range around here." 

"Yeah, there is," Sebastian answered. "Not far from here, in fact." 

"Then we should go one afternoon," she said, nudging Collin. "Show you how to shoot." 

"I know how to shoot," Collin replied. "I'm southern, aren't I? Southerners come out of their mothers' wombs fully armed. Hell, I was given a box of shells as a rattle and a pistol for a pacifier." 

Miriam asked, "Is that where you developed your oral fixation on phallic objects?" 

Collin stared at her with a dead-pan expression for a few tense moments before finally saying, "You are just not right." 

But Miriam only beamed as she looked to Sebastian. "Ten years and I finally lobbed one past the Mouth of the South." She wiped fake tears from her cheeks and said with a false sob, "This is one of the proudest moments of my life." She fell into Sebastian's arms, still pretending to weep. 

"I'm so proud of you." Sebastian squeezed her tight. 

Didion, though, was not smiling. 

* * *

Monday morning, and Blair yawned as he poured himself a cup of the station's coffee. He set the glass coffee pot back on the burner, then braced both hands against the formica counter, feeling the spilled grains of sugar under his fingertips. Since he had moved out, he hadn't had a decent night's sleep. His nightmares had changed. No longer was he being attacked by a large black dog while Jim stood by and watched. Now they were more surreal and disjointed -- odd symbols and happenings -- but all the while, a black dog stared at him, licking its paws. Staring up at the ceiling all night, missing his lover, didn't help matters much. Especially after Jim was shot. Just the knowledge that his sentinel was zoning in dangerous situations, but still chose to keep him away, was enough to keep him sleepless. 

Blair picked up two packets of sugar, shook them against his palm to move the sugar to the bottom, then ripped them open. He yawned again before he could even finish putting the sugar into his coffee. 

A shadow appeared across the counter, and a hand patted his shoulder. Blair turned and recognized Rafe in his dark suit and well-groomed black hair. "We aren't keeping you up, are we, Hairboy?" 

Blair just shook his head as he stirred his coffee. 

"So what are you and Jim doing in that loft of yours, to keep you guys awake?" 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"Are you two playing video games all night or something? Jeez, Ellison looks like he hasn't gotten any sleep in months." 

"Rafe, you know Jim and I aren't roommates any more, don't you?" 

Rafe eyed him, his eyebrows furrowed. "Uh . . . no, I hadn't heard that. What, finally couldn't take living with that bear any more?" 

Blair's expression was just as confused. "You mean, no one at the station is gossiping about this?" 

"Don't know what you're talking about." 

"Rafe, someone in this station is threatening to kill me if I stay with Jim." 

"You mean that dog collar thing?" 

"It wasn't just a dog collar. It got so bad that Jim kicked me out, and he wants me to stop coming by the station, too." 

"Wait a minute. You mean you guys got more threats?" 

"Hello? Earth to Rafe?" 

"Shit, Blair." Rafe put his hands on his hips and scanned the other officers in the station. "I don't think anyone knows this. I only know about the dog collar." 

"Yeah, well, that's why neither one of us has gotten any sleep." 

"I can't believe Ellison kicked you out of his place. That son of a bitch." He turned to leave, and Blair grabbed his elbow. 

"Hey, hold on. Where are you going?" 

"I'm about to give Ellison a piece of my mind." 

"Whoa whoa whoa. I appreciate the concern, dude, but I can handle this, all right?" 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah, I'm sure." 

"Are you still getting threats?" 

"No. The last one I got was the day Jim and I . . . I mean, when I moved into a new place." 

"That just pisses me off. How the hell are we supposed to stop crime if we can't even keep it from happening in the station?" 

"Simon's handling it. I guess that's why it hasn't burned through the grape vine. I'd . . . I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't take this anywhere." 

Rafe stared at him for a few seconds, considering it. "I think you'd be surprised what the station thinks. I mean, we kid around with you, man, but no one here wants to see you dead." 

"Thanks, Rafe." 

"So I guess that's why you haven't sponsored Ellison for the Corporate Challenge yet." 

"What Corporate Challenge?" 

Rafe pointed to the bullpen's bulletin board. "Jim's running in a three-mile race this weekend, and he's asked us to sponsor him. It's for some charity. See, his sign up sheet's over there." 

Blair stepped over to the bulletin board. Jim had pinned a sign-up sheet for the other officers to write in their donations. Most people were donating five dollars a mile, and a few, like Simon, were giving ten. Sighing, Blair added up the week's expenses in his head. He still needed to pay Collin for groceries and utilities. But he'd be damned if anyone gave Jim more than he did. He would have to apologize to Collin later, and he quickly wrote his name and ten dollars a mile on the contribution sheet. 

* * *

That Monday, delegates began to pour into Cascade for the upcoming Latin summit. Jim hadn't even had a chance to go into the station yet. He pulled at his tie, then remembered who he was meeting and tightened it back. He looked at his watch impatiently. /Nine. Where the hell are they?/ He had been assigned to the security detail for the most stringent delegation -- Cuba. That had allowed him, finally, to shake Lee off, but now he was reporting to an entire tribe of CIA and Secret Service agents. And working with these new agents helped him distance himself further from Blair. Every time he thought of him, his chest ached. And seeing the hurt look in Blair's face only stabbed at him further. But neither service would allow Blair to "observe," so Jim didn't need to argue the point with his former guide. /I have to keep Blair away from me,/ he chanted. /I have to keep Blair safe./ 

Jim stood among the agents in the lobby of the Great Northern -- a four star hotel where the Cuban delegation was staying. It was named after the railway line that had changed the sleepy little lumber town of Cascade into the metropolitan rival between Seattle and Vancouver. The building -- a grand, ostentatious Italianate palace with red and green tiles along the walls and ceilings, and large palms -- had been built in 1909. Jim paced the burgundy and gold Persian carpets and checked his watch again. Finally, he looked up as the other agents spotted Consul Stevens wearing his formal pinstripes, coming up the stairs into the lobby. Several assistants followed him. 

Then Jim recognized the man in the light brown double breasted suit who was with him. When Didion saw Jim, his smile was genuine. Tiny crow's feet wrinkled the corners of his eyes. Too far away to speak, Didion waved. Consul Stevens notice the move, and he glanced at Jim. Stevens came closer and held out his hand. "Good morning, Detective Ellison. Good to see you again. Do you know Didion Sachs?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Didion seemed pleased to see Jim hold out his hand first for a change. "We have met, Consul." 

"Why are you here?" Jim asked. 

"I do a lot of business with Latin America," Didion answered. Then he looked at the consul. "Lately, I've been lobbying to allow donations of medicines to Cuba." 

Stevens interrupted. "Considering the strained relations between our two countries, we thought it might be a good idea to have Mr. Sachs with us to welcome our guests when they arrive. Friendly face and all. Will that be all right with you?" Stevens looked to the other agents for an answer. 

"Oh, sure, that's fine," one of them said. 

"How is the security here?" 

"Very good, sir." 

"That's good. I've asked the consul from Seattle to meet them at the airport. Their motorcade should be arriving soon." 

* * *

Jim remained busy with the Cuban delegation, and he didn't come by the station until late. The other detectives were on similar details, so Blair was left by himself. Blair was bored and didn't stay long, waiting only to see if he could catch Simon. The week passed quickly, and Jim didn't even check the list of names on his sponsor's sheet for the race as he stripped it from the bulletin board. 

* * *

That Friday night before the race, Sebastian strolled into the kitchen and found Didion sitting at the almond slate bar with several plastic bottles of water in front of him. In his hands, he held a small syringe. "Where's Miriam?" Didion asked. 

Sebastian moved closer. "She's out with Collin. What are you doing?" 

Didion glanced up at him, then returned his steady gaze to the bottle in his hands. "I still can't believe Lee was able to insert himself in Jim's loft." 

"Just lucky, I guess." 

"Still, Jim's a pretty cold fish. Lee can be pretty insistent though. Maybe Jim might just give in and have sex with him just to shut him up." Then he winked at Sebastian. "I know I did." 

"So what are you doing?" 

"Giving Lee an advantage." Didion pierced the bottle near the neck and squirted a clear liquid into the water. "Now, tomorrow, after the race, make sure you give Jim and Lee the bottles with the green circle near label." He pointed the inconspicuous mark to his lover. 

Sebastian sat down on the stool next to him. "You know, most runners eat pasta or something on the day before the race." 

Didion smiled, then kissed Sebastian on the bridge of his nose. "If I were just another runner, do you think you would have ever fallen in love with me." 

Sebastian replied seriously, "Didion, I didn't fall in love with you because you were an assassin." 

Didion nodded, a little more somber now. "You fell in love with me in spite of it." 

The dark-haired man stroked his lover's face with his palm. "We're doing just fine. This mission's just a little complicated." 

The assassin stared at the water bottles. "Jesus, what am I doing?" 

"I know. But you're doing what needs to be done. Jim and Blair have to be apart, completely apart, while the summit's going on. Otherwise, we're doomed." 

"Yeah, well, we've gotten Jim and Blair apart at home, but they're still a working sentinel-guide pair at the station. We went to the trouble of bringing Lee up here. I guess we might as well use him. Maybe a third-party might make things a little more difficult for them." 

* * *

Collin toyed with his salad, lifting up the lettuce leaves with his fork and knocking the croutons around the bowl. Miriam sat across from him, her legs crossed and her chin resting in her upturned palm. After a few more minutes of watching her friend nervously play with his food, she remarked, "Is that thing better company than I am?" 

"Huh?" 

"Your salad. I think you've inspected every leaf. Hell, it's a Caesar's salad, Col. There's not a hell of a lot to it to begin with." 

"I didn't notice I was doing it. Sorry." 

"So what's with you tonight?" 

"Me? Nothing." 

"Out with it." 

"I'm just in another world." 

"Tell me about it." 

"Hey, Miriam?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Are you planning to stay with Bass during the entire conference?" Collin waited while Miriam sipped her hot tea. /Five days. Didion said I had to get you out of their house in five days or he was going to kill Ian./ 

"The dean has me set up in the Cascade Hyatt. That's where the El Salvadoran delegation is staying." 

"Is that the group you're working with?" 

"Yeah. I'll be one of their _assistant_ translators. Whoopee." She twirled a ringed finger in the air. 

"Do you want me to ride with you?" 

"I don't know. I'm sorta thinking I might just stay with Bass." 

"No!" Collin dropped his fork against the bowl. "You can't do that!" 

"What are you talking about? Sure I can. They have a ton of space. Hell, their spread has to be better than the Hyatt." 

"No! You can't!" 

"Are you nuts?!" 

"You have to go to the Hyatt tomorrow." 

Miriam threw both of her hands up. "Give me one good reason why." 

Collin fumbled for an answer. /Good reason? Didion said he'd shoot Ian if you didn't. How's that for a good reason?/ "Uhm . . . well, for one, the college is paying for the rooms." 

"Actually, they aren't. The delegation is." 

"Still, the rooms are paid for. Take advantage of it." 

"What advantage?" 

"Room service?" 

"Bass has a fully stocked refrigerator . . . and bar I might add." 

"You'll want to be close to the delegates." 

"Who cares? I'm a fucking _assistant_ translator. I can be late." 

"Miriam," Collin sighed, "you _have_ to." 

"Collin, give me one good reason why." 

Collin closed his eyes. He thought for a moment, and then he tried, "I don't feel comfortable going to Didion's house. I'm having a really hard time going there to see you. I wish you'd move into the hotel so I could visit you more often." 

Miriam rolled her eyes. "All right. Fine. Whatever. I'll do it." 

Collin's shoulders fell with relief. "Oh, thank god." 

* * *

[Continued in part two](timedoes1_a.html).


	2. Chapter 2

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Time Does Not Bring Relief II

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Disclaimer and notes can be found in part one. 

* * *

Time Does Not Bring Relief II -- part two  
By Kadru 

Early Saturday morning, Jim woke from troubled dreams to the sound of the shower running. He groaned as he rubbed the sleep from his face. Lee was stealing all the hot water. Jim checked the digital clock. He still had time to get ready. Not that he had a lot to do to get ready -- just throw on some running shorts, a tee shirt, and then sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He was about to run three miles -- a shower wouldn't do much good anyway. Jim forced himself out of bed and down to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. He wasn't all the hungry, considering how much pasta he had eaten the night before. "Let's go carb up," Lee had told him, and they had gone to an Italian restaurant with an all-you-could-eat pasta buffet. 

As they got ready, Lee tried to be talkative, but Jim only replied in grunts. He tried not to think about anything today. He was tired of always thinking -- always trying to figure out a way to find whoever was threatening Blair, then how he was going to win Blair back if he did. The fact that the threats had ceased altogether only upset him more -- now he didn't have any leads. But this morning, he didn't want to focus on anything. He was so distracted that after they had left, Jim realized he had forgotten his contribution sheet and had to run back to the loft to get it. 

Jim parked his truck at the finish line, then he climbed into Lee's rental car for a ride to the starting line and the registration center. Despite the crowd, Jim had no trouble spotting Sebastian's garish red turtleneck. He sauntered up to the pair. Both men smiled at him without saying any greetings. 

"You ready to go?" Didion asked him. 

Jim nodded. "You?" 

"Ready as I'll ever be. I'm about to head over to the registration booth and hand over what I raised." 

"How much did you get?" 

"You . . . uh . . . probably don't want to know." 

"No, come on. Tell me," Jim goaded. 

"$100,000." 

"Jesus! I only got $500! How many sponsors did you get?" 

"Not that many. Most of them are on the hospital's board of directors." 

Jim's jaw tightened. When he saw Lee coming over, it tightened even more. 

"So how's your new roomie?" Sebastian teased. 

Jim turned on Sebastian with a hard glare. "You met this guy first, right?" 

Sebastian frowned. "Never mind. I can see where this conversation is heading. Forget I even brought it up." 

Lee didn't stand around with them long. "Come on, guys, let's get this show on the road." As he left them for the registration tents, he shouted over at them. "I can't wait to kick some butt!" 

Didion folded his arms. "I should have challenged him on the money and not the race." Then he checked on Jim. "You carbed up last night, didn't you?" Jim only nodded. "What about your stretches? Have you done them, yet?" 

"No." 

"Let's get rid of this paperwork and start working on relaxing those muscles. I'll be damned if either of us is going to lose to him." 

While they stood in line at the registration tent, Jim checked over his paperwork, scanning the names of his sponsors. Every so often, Sebastian and Didion's conversations to each other distracted him. He would study them, how they interacted. Would he and Blair have been as comfortable with each other after two and a half years as a couple? /Will I ever get to find out?/ Sighing, he turned back to his sheets, making sure everything was correct on them, when he spotted Blair's unmistakable hand-writing. /Ah, Sandburg, you didn't have to do this./ He looked across the sheet to see how much Blair was donating. /Thirty bucks! Damnit, Sandburg. That's three meals!/ He wanted to just mark Blair's name out and insist that Blair keep his money, but in his heart he knew he had hurt Blair's feelings too often this month, and he just couldn't do it again. Before Jim could have gotten away with making Blair keep his money; now, after their separation, every word and action was over-loaded with meaning. 

Jim listened to Didion and Sebastian again. /So Blair knows about this race, then? Is he here?/ Dialing his hearing up as much as he dared without risking a zone-out, Jim tried to find his guide's heartbeat. Nothing. Then he sniffed the wind. Nothing. As he scanned the crowd, he suddenly felt Didion's hand on his arm. 

"Hey, Jim, snap out of it." Didion smiled. "If you get behind in the line, how are you going to handle the race, man?" 

Jim didn't answer him as he moved closer in the line. 

The registration moved around Jim, as he seemed lost in his thoughts. Either Sebastian or Didion guided him quietly about. Jim wasn't too sure when they began their stretching exercises. He suddenly realized that he didn't remember starting as he reached for his ankle, feeling the burn of his muscles pulling. Then Lee was among them, calling him "Jimmy" and patting him on the shoulder too often. As the three men stood with the other runners at the starting line, waiting for the shot from the referee, Jim quickly glanced over at Didion. 

Didion stood very still, his eyes piercing the crowd -- his eyebrows curled like a falcon's. Jim tried to follow his line of vision. After a few moments, he asked, "Do you see someone you know?" 

But the other man did not take his angry eyes away as he said calmly, "No." 

Then Jim's emotions betrayed him as these words fell out: "Do you see Blair?" 

At Jim's question, Didion's expression softened. He gave Jim a regretful smile and replied, "No." 

Taking a deep breath, Jim nodded once before focusing on the race. 

* * *

Blair stood behind two other spectators. While he waited for the runners to approach, he watched the two in front of him -- a young woman with long black hair and a young man with a brown beard and ponytail. They laughed and joked with each other, and every so often, the man would lean in and kiss his girlfriend on the neck, delighted in her squeal as his beard tickled her skin. Watching them, eavesdropping on their lives, Blair couldn't help but feel resentment at two people happy to be together, and he couldn't help but feel the gray loneliness that his life had become without Jim's presence. 

The sound of shoes slapping against asphalt signaled a distracting relief. Blair watched and waited as so many nameless, sweating faces ran past. So many unknown men -- he wasn't expecting so many runners who were not Jim. And just as he was beginning to give up hope of seeing his sentinel, Blair finally spotted Didion, and then Jim running beside him. Seeing Lee so close to his lover made Blair instantly jealous, but he tried to shake it off, concentrating instead on the form of Jim -- his muscled body striving to win, pulsing underneath his tee-shirt and running shorts. Instantly Blair remembered nights when that hard body would stroke his skin to climax, would fill him up inside and claim him, taking him and spilling him into a wet passion. As Jim passed him, Blair stood mesmerized by the play of flesh against sweat-soaked cloth. Then, watching Jim run from him, the sheer symbolism of it -- of his lover running away from him -- struck him. Blair's throat ached with pain and his eyes misted. Swallowing hard, Blair forced back the emotional reaction, and he slipped into the crowd like a shy fish sinking into a fathomless deep. 

* * *

The cool morning air did little to stop Didion and Jim from sweating, and their tee shirts clung tightly to their chests. Just past the halfway mark, Jim paced his breathing and his steps as best as he could, but Didion focused as much of his energy as possible on observing the internal rhythms of Jim's body. With his hearing dialed up, Didion listened to Jim's heartbeat and the flow of his breathing. /I can't believe I'm getting a chance to do this./ Using his training, Didion began to force his heart to beat at Jim's pace. Running, the assassin felt his body sting and tingle as his muscles complained, the biofeedback occurring at too stressful an event. /The stress is good,/ Didion tried to convince himself. /The stress is good. I need to be able to do this under the most stressful conditions./ Gradually he forced his heartbeat to match Jim's while still maintaining his stamina. 

/Now . . . Jim . . . when the time comes . . . you'll never hear me coming./ 

Jim didn't even notice the change. His senses remained locked on Lee, his competitor. Jim was not about to be beaten. He wasn't quite sure why Lee annoyed him as much as he did. Territory? Maybe. Lee's obvious attraction to him. More likely. Now that he had moved into the loft, Lee's level of flirtation bordered on rude. A squeeze of the shoulder. A pinch on the flank. A wink and a grin. 

Then, as if Lee could sense Jim's thoughts, the blond agent smiled. "See you losers at the finish line," he huffed, then he surged forward. 

Jim pushed his long legs to run faster, when he felt a strong hand grab at his forearm. The detective turned slightly to see Didion holding him back. Breathing hard, Didion could only shake his head. Jim wasn't sure why, but he trusted Didion at that moment, and together the two ran at the same pace, feet striking the asphalt in identical rhythm. 

Before the race, Didion had inspected the course. As the crowd of runners turned the corner, a sharp rise greeted them. Jim stretched out his hearing, and he could easily detect Lee's ragged breath in the throng. His pace had slowed, and Jim could practically feel his muscles straining. At the top of the hill, both Didion and Jim had managed to close half of Lee's lead. Under a canopy of trees, the hill leveled off, then sloped downward. Using the momentum afforded by gravity, Didion and Jim widened their steps. Halfway down the slope, they fell even with Lee. 

Jim glanced at Didion. 

Didion smiled slightly, then nodded. 

Both men burst from their steady pace and into a sprint. 

Lee's over-exerted muscles could only tremble as he tried to keep up with them. 

* * *

With his hands on his hips and his breathing ragged, Jim walked around the back area behind the finish line, trying to cool down. His legs felt weak and jelly-like, and his heart thumped in his chest. One of the volunteers had already handed him a tee shirt -- I Completed the Corporate Challenge -- and the thick white cotton was slung over his shoulder. Didion milled around with him as both men tried to ease their bodies down from their strenuous exercise. 

Suddenly Sebastian appeared from the crowd, rushing on Didion and hugging him tight. Didion kissed him on the cheek and whispered, "Careful, babe. Don't knock me down." 

"You've run longer races than this." 

"Not with hills like this city has." 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah. I'm fine." 

"I saw y'all beating Lee. Good job." 

Jim just shrugged his shoulders. He watched as Didion handed his lover the tee shirt. "There you go, babe. Another one for your collection." Sebastian took the tee shirt from him and held it up to his chest. Jim watched the interplay, and he slowly pulled the tee shirt from his shoulder and stared down at the printed graphics. 

/If Blair were here, I'd give this to him, too./ 

Lee stepped over and clapped Jim on the shoulder. "Good race, Jimmy. I almost had you." 

"You didn't come close," Jim replied, a little harsh. 

Didion looked over at Sebastian, and the other man nodded. Sebastian reached into the backpack he carried, glanced down at the bottle, then gave it to Didion. "Here you go, handsome. You could use some rehydration." Then he pulled two more bottles, checking the labels. "Jim, water?" 

"I'm fine." 

Didion interrupted. "Nothing doing. You don't need to risk dehydration." 

Lee grabbed the bottles. "I'll take one." He handed the other one to Jim before breaking the seal. "So, where am I taking you two for dinner?" 

Jim rolled his eyes. He looked down at the water bottle, not feeling particularly thirsty, but he knew he needed to drink some of it. He twisted the cap, then turned the bottle up for a deep drink. Didion reached over and said, "Not so fast. You'll get a cramp." Jim nodded as he sipped slowly. 

He didn't notice the sly smile on Didion and Sebastian's faces. 

* * *

Jim sat on the couch, his legs stretched out on the sofa. Since he and Lee had returned from the race, everything around him felt a little off kilter. Smells seemed different. Despite the October chill, the loft felt uncomfortably warm. Jim had already stripped down to his boxers and tee shirt, and the cold beer he drank sat heavy in his stomach. 

Lee wasn't helping matters much. He paced the loft, cracking his knuckles every so often. He had already complained about the temperature, and now he stepped along the edges of the room in a tank top and shorts. 

"Lee, stop it." 

"Stop what?" 

"Stop pacing. Jeez, you're getting on my last nerve." 

"Your nerves? You've been a fucking bear since we got home. What crawled up your ass?" 

Jim closed his eyes, not in the mood for a fight. Trying to breathe slowly, he hoped to calm himself down. Focusing on himself, he didn't notice Lee slip up behind him. Suddenly, warm hands gripped his shoulders pleasantly, and he found himself sighing. "Damn, Jimmy, your muscles are all knotted up. Is that what's wrong with you? Are you starting to get sore?" 

The sentinel couldn't answer him. The flood of sensations caused something to snap inside his mind. Thoughts came out disjointed and irrational. /Feels good . . . wish Blair was here . . . hate Lee . . . why is he here instead of Blair . . . I want Blair . . . feels so good . . . Blair, I love you./ 

"Come on, Jimmy. Let me rub out these knots. It'll give me something to do and then maybe you won't be such an asshole." Lee pulled on Jim's wrist, coaxing him upstairs. Jim had no resources to fight him. He could only smell the strong cinnamon flavor of Lee's pheromones while his mind struggled with thoughts and emotions of Blair. Lee slipped off his tee shirt and pushed him to lie on his stomach. As Jim did so, his mind drifted back to nights when Blair shared his bed, waking up to him in the morning, feeling his heart beat coursing through all of his veins. 

/Gone . . . he's gone . . . can't bring him back./ The heavy, black feeling of loss caused his eyes to squeeze tight, and he didn't notice Lee straddling his waist. When the agent's strong hands began to massage the tender knots in Jim's shoulders, he moaned out loud, but his mind still reeled with thoughts of Blair. /I want him. I want him. I want Blair back./ And even as he thought of Blair, the strong scent of Lee's pheromones caused his body to react, and he felt himself growing hard from Lee's touch. 

The mattress shifted under him, and Jim nearly jumped when he felt Lee's soft lips gently kiss him between his shoulder blades. His vision clouded as his arousal heightened. Lee tugged on Jim's shoulder, forcing him to turn on his back. As he did, Lee's hand pulled Jim's boxers down his thighs. Suddenly, a hot, wet mouth descended on his cock. Jim's hands snapped to Lee's head, forcing his mouth farther onto his hard shaft, choking him. Hearing Lee's muffled complaint sparked something in Jim. 

Anger. Anger that Blair was gone. Anger that someone had made him hurt the one most precious thing in his life. Anger that this mysterious threat had so suddenly disappeared without a single trace. He glanced down at Lee, at this man who had been hounding him for over a week, and the anger seemed complete as he sat up in his bed and pushed Lee onto his stomach. His thought processes shut down entirely as he pressed his weight on Lee's back. 

* * *

Lee roused himself, looked around, and realized he was in Jim's bed. His head ached fiercely. Sitting up, he saw the red digits of the alarm clock. 2:17. The room was dark, but amber streetlights poured through the skylights and windows, and he could see fairly well. Jim wasn't in bed, and Lee's rear felt very sore. "Man," he whispered as he rubbed between his legs. Images of Jim reaming him again and again, brutally, growling almost, filled his mind. /How did Blair stand it all the time?/ Looking over the edge, he spotted Jim, sitting on the sofa. 

His face was buried in his hands. 

Lee settled back into the pillows. /I won't bother him, then./ 

* * *

Blair stood awkwardly beside Jim as neither of them spoke while they waited in the precinct parking garage for Lee Whitmore to finish speaking to one of the attendants. Something about Jim troubled him today. The detective stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes downcast. He hadn't even said good morning to Blair, and he seemed even more conscious of his personal space around his guide. And his behavior around Lee was even stranger. Each time Lee had touched him while upstairs in the bullpen, Jim had jerked away from him. /Was it something about the race? Is Jim sore?/ 

Lee took the keys to his rental car from the attendant and he finally turned towards them. Jim looked at his watch with an impatient eyebrow raised. Lee saw it, and once he got close enough he punched Jim in the shoulder. "Hey, give me a break. Look at me, man!" He leaned in closer, between Jim and Blair so that both of them could hear. "I'm walking funny here after what you did to me last night." Lee watched for Blair's reaction before he continued. "You didn't have to be so rough, you know? Not with that monster dick of yours." Lee reached out and patted Jim on the stomach. "It's been a long time since I did that with a guy." 

Lee's words splashed in Blair's face like ice water. He replayed the sentences in his mind, unable to believe them. His mouth remained slightly open, and except for the sound of Lee's voice ringing in his ears, not a single thought formed in his brain. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lee nudge Jim, then wink. Jim jerked away from his touch. Finally registering the comment, the academic's eyes grew wide and the color drained from his face. 

Jim heard his guide's flustered heartbeat, and he slowly turned his face to look at Blair, his blue eyes dark with shame. When they made eye contact, Blair recognized the acknowledgement of guilt. Then Jim's eyes spread like circles and his mouth opened slightly as he realized his guide truly knew. "Blair . . . I . . ." 

Blair held up his hand to silence him. Quickly he turned and stormed away. 

"Blair, wait." He ran to Blair, grabbing his elbow. 

At his touch, Blair practically jumped from the ground, his fist flying, socking Jim across the jaw. The detective reeled back from the punch. "Don't you fucking touch me," he growled, shaking the sting from his hand. "Don't you fucking touch me, DO YOU HEAR?!" With both hands he shoved Jim back, then he ran to his car, slamming the door behind him. "Start. Start. Start goddamn you." 

Jim rubbed his jaw, letting the impact pass over him. By the time he realized what had happened, Blair had already started his car. Chasing after him, Jim pounded on the windshield. "Blair! Blair, please wait! Let me explain!" 

The motor roared, and tires squealed as Blair sped away, leaving Jim standing in the garage. "Blair! Blair!" 

* * *

Blair took one sip of his red wine before setting the glass down on the coffee table. He had been borderline weepy all day, but he forced himself to wait until after 6 before drinking. The thought of turning to alcohol to numb his pain disturbed him a little, and he rationalized that if he waited until evening, it wouldn't seem so bad. As he lay spread out across the sofa with one leg touching the floor, Blair draped his arm across his eyes and listened to the music. 

[Hold on]  
[Hold on to yourself,]  
[Cause this is gonna hurt like hell.] 

He heard the door open and he sat up. Collin had told him earlier that morning that he had a date with Ian, and Blair wasn't expecting him. The thought that he could spend this night alone had helped him make it through the day. 

Collin stepped inside, and when he recognized Sarah McLachlan, he sparked into action. "No no no no!" He quickly turned the cd player off. "That's a big no ma'am! We will not have Sarah McLachlan playing in this house until things get better. The last thing we need is a weepy Blair." Then Collin turned around. He saw Blair's red eyes and the broken emotions on his face. Collin's shoulders sagged. "Oh, Blair." 

"I thought you had a date." 

"I do. Ian's on his way up. I just needed to drop by for a second, check the mail and stuff." Collin sat down on the sofa near Blair's legs. "What's wrong?" 

Blair rolled his eyes, but that only made them tear up. "I found out today that Jim's been sleeping around with Lee Whitmore." 

Collin sucked in a deep, angry breath. Just then, they heard a knock on the door. "Ian. He's so goddamn polite. Come in, Ian!" 

Ian opened the door. "Hello, Blair," he waved to him. But when he saw the expression in Blair's eyes, he immediately came over, moving Blair's wine glass aside and sitting on the glass coffee table. "What's the matter?" 

"Jim's seeing someone else now." 

Collin spoke before Ian could react, "How do you know this?" 

"Because Lee said so, out loud." 

"Lee?" Ian asked. 

Collin answered for him. "Lee Whitmore. He's a federal agent that Brian used to know. He used to live in Atlanta. The man's a whore." Collin looked at Blair. "Are you sure he's not lying? Trying to get under your skin?" 

"You should have seen the look on Jim's face. He's not lying. And Jim's been calling me all day." 

"Why?" 

"Hell if I know. Maybe he wants to tell me his excuses, but that's so the last thing I need to hear right now." 

"Oh, Blair." 

"I was such a fool," Blair moaned. "I thought Jim just needed to calm down. I thought he just needed some space and that he'd come back to me. This just . . . I had no idea this would happen." Tears spilled down his cheeks. 

"Blair," Ian began, stroking his arm, "we don't have to go out tonight." 

"I thought you guys had tickets?" 

Ian said, "It's not important. Concerts come and go. We can stay here with you tonight, if you'd like." 

Collin nodded his approval. 

"No, guys, I appreciate it, but I kinda want to be alone tonight. Please?" 

Collin took a deep breath, then said, "Okay. Fine. We can do that. But first thing's first." He picked up Blair's wine glass. "How much wine have you had to drink?" 

"I'm okay. I haven't even started on my first glass." 

"Good." Collin stood up and took the glass away. 

"Hey, wait a minute!" Blair rose to follow him. "Where are you going with that?" 

"Blair, I'm the master of broken hearts. The first thing you need to do is avoid the wine. It's a weepy drink and it will just make you cry more." Collin held the bottle over the sink and tried to pour the wine back into it. Some of it spilled onto his hand, but Collin didn't seem to care as he pushed the cork in before wiping his fingers with a paper towel. "If you need a buzz to get numb, that's fine, but let me tell you not to drink the sweet stuff. Vodka's good, but tequila's even better." Collin pulled down a bottle of tequila and a large tumbler. "Tequila's a depressant, too, like all alcohols, but the agave plant gives you a different reaction." With nimble hands, he quickly sliced a lime, swirled it around the rim, then poured salt into a saucer and dipped the rim of the glass into it. He filled the glass with ice, then filled it halfway with tequila. "Now, where's the mix?" He rummaged through the refrigerator. "There it is. . . ." He looked back into the cabinets. "And now for a splash of Grand Marnier . . . Ah, there's the bottle." Then Collin stirred it with a spoon. "There, my friend, a Texas special." He handed it to Blair for a sip. 

Blair's face wrinkled from the potency. "Whoa! What are you, a bartender?" 

"Oh, come on. What self-respecting southern queer can't fix a good cocktail? Now if you need another one, just fix half tequila and half margarita mix. You won't taste anything by then, anyway." 

Blair took another sip and watched Collin move past him into the den. "Now, the next thing. No Sarah McLachlan. I love her to death, but she's too weepy. And no Jann Arden, either. Music affects your mood, so you need to use it to keep you from getting too broken down." He stood in front of his collection of cd's and started picking out selections. "Now, start out with the blues, but good blues. Like the Indigo Girls. Then move into something a little lighter, like Joan Osborne. By the time you listen to those guys and finish off that drink and start on your next, you should be good and ready for something stupid and fun like the B-52's." Then he held up a cd. "Now, if you wanna get mad, think of this as your emergency kit." 

"What is it?" 

"Alanis Morrisette." 

As Blair came towards the sofa, Ian reached out for his drink and set it down on the end table. Then he pulled Blair into a tight hug. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "for what it's worth." 

Collin looked up. Blair had slumped against Ian's chest, tugging tightly on his shoulders as tears started to spill across his cheeks. Collin tried not to look upset or jealous as he slipped the cd's into the cd player, but Blair noticed. "Thanks, Ian," Blair said, pulling away. 

"You sure you don't want us to stay?" 

"No, I mean it. I need some down time." He pulled away from Ian, and as he came closer to Collin, he whispered, "Don't worry. Ian's yours now. I'd never try to take him from you." 

Collin didn't know how to answer. He only looked down at his feet. 

Then suddenly the phone rang, making them both jerk. "Damnit," Blair snapped, "that's gotta be Jim again." 

"He's _still_ calling?" 

"Every thirty minutes." The answering machine picked up, and Jim's voice began to speak. "I'm sorry," Blair muttered, "I can't listen to this." 

He headed for his bedroom, and when he closed the door, Collin snatched up the phone, enraged. "What the hell do you want?" 

Jim was so startled by Collin's voice and his anger that he was rendered speechless. That gave Collin enough time to react to Blair opening his bedroom door and racing into the hallway. Collin immediately started snapping his fingers to grab his attention, then waved to silence him. "Yes, it's Collin. Who the hell did you think it was? This is my house." 

Blair stepped closer. "Collin, don't." 

Collin covered the phone. " _I_ will handle this." Then to Jim, "No, I'm not going to let you speak to him. Just what the hell do you want? . . . . I don't give a fuck if it ain't my business. I'm making it my business. What the hell do you have to say? That you're _sorry_? That you want to spill out a bunch of fucking lame excuses to try and make _yourself_ feel better? Can you possibly be so goddamn dense as to _think_ that that's gonna do Blair any good to hear your bullshit?" 

Blair started pacing. 

Collin noticed his friend's agitation, but he continued, "No, let me tell you what _is_ my business. I live every day now with the man that you abandoned. And while _you_ may have abandoned him, _he_ didn't abandon you. He told me every day how much you meant to him, and how he was giving you space, that he knew you were frightened and that if he stepped back for a little while, that you would come to your senses. So just tell me how you repaid that kind of loyalty, huh? By fucking another man?" 

Blair covered his ears and kept pacing. 

"No, Jim, let me ask you something. Are you calling to ask Blair to move back in with you?" 

Blair stopped and stared at Collin. 

"I say again, are you calling to ask Blair to come back?" 

Collin held up the phone for Blair to hear, but only silence came across the line. 

"I thought so," Collin barked. "You've hurt him once by kicking him out. And you've torn him apart by betraying him. Why the fuck are you trying to call now with your weak excuses? Are you trying to make yourself feel less guilty? Well, too fucking bad! You deserve what guilt you're feeling right now. So leave Blair alone. Stop making it worse for him . . . Oh, and Jim? Don't call here again. Don't call, don't visit, don't write. Not until you're ready to ask him to move back. And not until you mean it." 

Collin slammed the phone down. Then the adrenaline rush struck him. He ran his hands through his hair several times, his whole body shaking. 

* * *

The entire time Collin shouted at him, Jim rocked back and forth on the couch, his face wet with tears. With every word back to Collin, he felt more and more stupid and weak, only able to repeat the same things over and over again. "Can I speak to Blair? . . . Can I . . . Can I . . . Blair?" When Collin finally hung up on him, Jim let the phone fall, clattering on the floor. His body shook violently with sobs. Covering his face, he howled loud, desperate wails, unable to contain the loss and desolation. 

* * *

Blair was the first to speak, "You had no right to do that." 

"No, I didn't." Collin calmed himself. "I had no right. I had no right to see my best friend hurt. I had no right to see my best friend broken and weak. I had no right to defend someone I'd give my life for." 

Blair waved his hands. "Collin, I can fight my own battles." 

"I know you can. I know you can." He came closer, then wrapped his arms around Blair. "I don't doubt it. But one of us had to get mad. It's better that it was me and not you. Tomorrow, or the day after, he'll call you back. But not to waste your time. When Jim calls you back, it's to ask you to come home." 

"And if he doesn't?" 

"Then he's not planning to ask you back in the first place." He pulled back to look into Blair's face. "Besides, you wanted to be alone tonight. He would have just kept calling here until he finally came over and confronted you. You don't need that right now. You don't need that kind of hurt on top of everything else. Trust me on this one, Blair. I know what this is like." 

"I still didn't like it." 

"That's okay. I forgive you." 

Blair laughed in spite of his tears. "Jesus, you really are too much." 

"So I've been told. Well," he patted Blair on the shoulder, "you're holding up better than I did." 

"Oh, really?" 

"Yeah. But then again, as long as you don't set the house on fire, you'll be doing better than I did." He hugged Blair again. "There's food in the fridge, so don't forget to eat. Ian? Do you have the cell phone with you?" 

"Yes." 

"Blair, do you have his cell phone number?" 

"Yeah, it's somewhere." 

"Where is it?" 

"It's in my address book, _mother_." 

"Okay. Call us if you need us. We won't mind, honest." 

"I will." 

Collin hugged him again. "I love you, Blair." 

"Thanks. I love you, too." He followed Collin to the door, then hugged Ian. "Thanks, Ian." 

"Any time, Blair. Any time." 

* * *

Jim stood outside the window, looking around at the balcony. A heavy rain pelted the concrete, and he watched with his arms crossed over his muscled chest as the rain battered the brown, wilted remains of the herbs he and Blair had planted that summer. /How fucking symbolic,/ he thought as he stared at the ruddy web of their stems. /My garden . . . dead./ He had stopped caring for it when Blair left. /When I kicked him out./ He closed his eyes and covered them with his hand, squeezing back another volley of tears. /Fuck, why was I so stupid?/ Throwing his head back, the words came to him, "This isn't what I want. I don't want this. I want Blair back." 

With Blair gone, Jim had suppressed his senses as much as he could, but even so, he easily heard the elevator door sliding, and he smelled the strong scent of Lee's cologne. Slowly, Jim crossed the loft, and he stood before the door as it opened. Lee barely had time to pull the key free of the lock when he noticed Jim standing, his legs slightly apart, his arms still crossed over his chest, and that stern look -- the jaw muscles twitching. "What?" 

"Are you off duty?" Jim asked calmly. 

"Yeah." 

Suddenly Jim entire upper body pivoted as his arm swung out. Like a brick, his fist socked Lee hard across the cheek. Taken off guard, Lee smacked against the open door. Jim tried not to enjoy the pleasure of feeling the agent's skin squish against his knuckles, but his smug, disgusted look was undisguisable. Regaining his balance, Lee rubbed his jaw. "Okay. I can see what's on your mind." 

Jim wasn't interested in talking. Taking a few steps towards the kitchen, Jim grabbed Lee's luggage that he had packed while waiting for him to come home. The detective tossed it on the floor by Lee's feet. "Now get out." 

* * *

The B-52's cd began, and Blair didn't even hear it. He leaned against the kitchen counter, looking at his empty glass, having finished the margarita several moments ago. His mind wandered as he gently fingered the salt along the rim of the glass, watching the thick white flakes fall to the floor. The raucous melodies of "Party Out of Bounds" had no affect on him. Only the heavy sensation in his chest held his attention, and the hard, iron-like pain. His scientific mind tried to categorize this -- it felt like a cold metal bowl in his chest -- but soft around the edges-- without a border -- more shadowlike. It was loneliness. And the crushing humiliation of rejection. Tomorrow, he would wake up, and he would be alone again. No more would he hear the soothing sounds of Jim's footsteps on the wooden floor. Nor his laughter. Nor that little grunt he made when he agreed with Blair but not enough to comment on it. No longer would he hear the creak of the bed under Jim's weight. He would never feel the warmth of Jim's hand on his knee while they watched television. No more would he feel the comfort bloom in his chest as he parked his car in front of the loft next to Jim's truck, knowing he was upstairs waiting. Jim was lost to him. Forever. 

The pain grew more intense, and the skin around his chin crumpled as his lips curved downward. /Damnit, I won't cry./ he thought. /I won't./ But already his stomach was beginning to cramp, curving his spine downward. Marionette strings began to tug at the base of his lungs, causing his breathing to heave beyond his control. /No. I won't./ The tears started to form as his throat tightened. /God damnit./ Blair covered his eyes with his hands. /NOOO!/ Before he could force it down, his lungs shook harder, and his shoulders trembled. The barriers his mind erected collapsed and he heard the weak, pathetic whimpering followed seconds later by the heartbreaking wail. Sobs racked him as his face crinkled into an ugly squeeze, the tears running across his twisted face. /He doesn't love me. He wants somebody else. I'm not good enough for him. I never was. All our time together has been a lie. He never needed me. He never wanted me. He just 'put up' with me, hoping I would go away. All this time he was just looking for an excuse./ 

The sheer sense of loss, and the utter realization of disillusionment, bore down on him hard. Blair was crying so hard his chest heaved for breath. His scalp and hands tingled with sharp pins and needles, and he began to see flashes of green and blue as his knees grew too weak to hold his body and he fell to the linoleum floor, his body racked with grief and betrayal. Lying on his side, Blair wept -- alone -- and in pain. 

* * *

That night, Didion invited Sebastian to a meal in the executive dining room of the Weyerhaeuser-Pacific building. Sebastian remained congenial to the other businessmen but quiet, able to comment on certain aspects of Didion's business conversations by using his own corporate experiences. However, for the most part, he enjoyed the scenery from the windows fifty stories above the city. While Didion allowed the executives to discuss various business arrangements to provide boxes and labels for the drugs Sachs-Rochemann produced, Sebastian reminisced on his days in Atlanta, swimming the political waters of the corporate world, meeting with people only because they were allies, declining meetings with others who were on the way down and clawing to stay afloat. He swirled the white wine in his glass, then pulled apart the tender flakes of salmon with his silver fork. Two and a half years ago, both he and Collin rode into work every day in pressed suits, starched white shirts, striking silk ties, both using their rapier-like communication skills in marketing and sales -- wining and dining clients in posh downtown Atlanta restaurants. Some days, like now, he missed it -- the sheer upper-class, exclusive polish and subtlety. 

As they left, he and Didion shook hands with the executives and declined the offer of their limos. "I met earlier with Cascade Island Paper," Didion said, dropping their name with ease. "I'm parked in their executive parking garage." He smiled. "But thank you for the offer. The weather's fine tonight. I think we'll walk over." 

Didion tried to repress the grin. When the executives were out of hearing range, Sebastian whispered, "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" 

"Of course I did. I don't want them thinking they're the only ones after my business." As they walked down the sidewalk, Didion grew quiet, obviously listening. 

"What is it?" 

Didion placed his hand at the base of Sebastian's neck. "Keep walking." He squeezed Sebastian's nape to calm him, but his tone of voice -- professional -- uninflected -- panicked his lover. 

"What?!" 

With a smile that Sebastian could tell was false, Didion said, "I think I forgot something. Go on to the car and I'll meet you." 

"Didion! Oh my god, what's happening?" 

"Keep walking," he commanded calmly. "Trust me." 

Sebastian took a few steps forward, and when he turned around, Didion was gone. His heartbeat raced as he continued down the sidewalk. Just as he entered the garage, he heard the echo of another pair of footsteps. He swallowed hard, his hands starting to shake, and he walked into the dark parking area. His spine itched, his body demanding to turn around and see who was following him, but Sebastian took a deep breath. /Calm down. Didion is here./ Slowly, he passed car after car, the sounds of the footsteps growing louder -- the soft, sandy crunch of shoe leather against concrete -- silent, as if the follower was trying to sneak up on him. Sebastian found it difficult to breathe by the time he reached Didion's gold Mercedes and pulled out his spare key. 

His trembling hands caused the keys to jingle and echo in the silent garage. He tried to slide the key into the lock, but when he heard the click of the gun cocking, he gasped, jerking around suddenly and dropping the keys. 

Standing in front of him, with his hands held up in surrender, was a man his age. His dark brown hair was cut military short, and his huge, bright hazel eyes and smooth, baby-faced skin made him appear even younger. He was much leaner than Didion, but his body curved with hard muscle. The man seemed to stare right through Sebastian with pure hatred. 

Behind him, pointing a gun into the back of his head, Didion growled, "What level agent are you?" 

"Level 2," the stranger said calmly. 

"Why would a Level 2 agent try to follow a Level 5 agent?" When the stranger didn't answer, Didion said to Sebastian, "Open the passenger door." He scrambled for the keys, unlocking the doors as Didion jabbed the stranger in the neck to move inside, the gun constantly pointed at his head. Didion followed him into the back seat. "Drive," he commanded Sebastian. 

Sebastian climbed behind the wheel of the Mercedes and drove it out of the garage, pausing at the gate to slip the guest pass through the reader and wait for the metallic gate to roll up. As they drove onto the street, Didion said, "Project procedure requires a lower level agent to report his presence to all higher level agents in his vicinity." 

"Consider this 'reporting in', _sir_ ," the stranger replied defiantly. 

"Name your mission." 

"Contact you, sir." 

"And this is how you contact me? By following me all over the city?" 

"I had to make sure of your identity, sir." 

"I am easily identifiable." 

"I did not want to approach you at your home. That is _your_ territory . . . sir." The stranger focused his hazel eyes on Didion. 

"Very well. Who are you?" 

"Lieutenant Phillip Harrison." 

"Why do you need to contact me?" 

"I have been sent to take over one of your hits, so you can focus on the others, sir." 

Didion glanced at Sebastian first, then asked, "Which one?" 

"Dr. Ian Yoshito." 

Sebastian's eyes grew wide, and both men in the back seat heard his heartbeat accelerate. Didion drew Phillip's attention away. "That hit will not occur until after the two state assassinations." 

"Sir, I can't agree to that." 

"You can and you will. That is a direct order from a higher level operative. The reason you are required to check in with higher level agents in your area is to prevent your mission from affecting mine. Striking down Ian Yoshito at this time would jeopardize the success of my assignment. Is that understood?" 

Phillip glared at him. 

"Is that understood?!" 

"Yes sir." 

"Stop here," Didion said to Sebastian. His lover pulled over. "Open the door." As Phillip climbed out of the car, Didion followed him. "You will report to me here --" he handed him a business card "-- every morning at nine." Then Didion opened the driver's side door and motioned for Sebastian to slip into the passenger seat. "Stay low. That's an order." 

Phillip didn't say anything else as he watched Didion sit down. His spine remained ram-rod stiff and his face stern and motionless. 

Didion sped away, and as he drove, Sebastian sat very quiet with his arms crossed. He couldn't look at Didion, but his heart continued to race. 

"Talk to me, Bass." 

"I don't want to talk you now." 

"I can smell your anger." 

"Oh really?" Sebastian eyed him hard. "Well, get used to it." 

"I don't know what to tell you about this." 

"What? You didn't trust me in the first place? How long have you known? When did you know you were supposed to kill Ian?" 

"When we arrived." 

"And you didn't bother to tell me?" 

"I didn't _want_ to tell you." 

"You what?!" 

"If I could have finished the assignment without you knowing about it, I would have." 

"Fuck you." Sebastian turned to look out the window again. 

Didion slammed on the brakes in the middle of a residential street, then confronted his lover. "What did you want me to do? Huh? What? Tell you up front I've been sent to kill your cousin's boyfriend?" 

"I don't . . . I don't know!" 

"Bass, I'm sorry, but Collin's lover is marked. From what I can tell, the Project set Ian up so that he would be arrested for altering medical records and claiming insurance fraud, but apparently Jim fought it and they had to back down. Now we have to kill him to keep him quiet. He's a marked man and he always will be until somebody kills him, whether it's me or somebody else." 

"I don't like this." 

"I don't like it, either. Why do you think I chose to keep it from you? Huh?" 

"Did you have so little respect of me? Don't you know I would have figured it out eventually?" 

Didion sighed. "Yes, that thought did come to mind." 

"You can't do this." 

"Well, now it looks like I'm not going to." 

"I . . . I . . . I can't do this, Didion. I can't do it. I can't sit here and let Collin get hurt like this again. This will kill him. This . . ." he looked at Didion, his expression confused and scared. "This will kill me, too." 

Didion squeezed his eyes tight, then turned to face the steering wheel. 

"Please, Didion. Do something." 

The assassin took a deep, pain-filled breath, then gripped the wheel hard with his hands. 

* * *

The next morning, Sebastian stood in the kitchen, staring out through the window. He hadn't slept at all that night, and now he had no appetite for breakfast. Everything had shut down for him -- his emotions, his reasoning. /Ian. Ian has to die./ He closed his eyes. /I don't . . . I don't know what I'm supposed to do./ 

At first, he didn't notice the phone ringing. Once he realized where the sound was coming from, he debated bothering to answer it, but he found himself automatically walking towards the phone and picking it up. "Hello?" 

"Bass? It's me." 

"Collin?" 

"Guess what just happened." 

Sebastian swallowed from fear. His voice came out cracked. "Wh-what?" 

"Blair just found out that Jim's seeing Lee now." 

The words tumbled in Sebastian's mind. "Oh?" 

"What do you mean, 'oh'? . . . You knew this was going to happen all along, didn't you?" 

"That's ridiculous." 

"Don't play games with me, Bass. I know what went down in Atlanta with Brian and Scott. I know about the threats then, and I know about the threats y'all made to Blair and Jim. Couldn't y'all have come up with something different? Velvet? Herbs?" 

"Collin, don't--" 

"Bass, I'm not going to sit back and let you do this to my friends." 

"Collin, please, I'm begging you." Sebastian's voice sounded tired and desperate. "Please don't get involved. I promise you that nothing will happen to them if you just let us do our jobs. Please." 

Collin said nothing for a while, then finally he spoke. "I don't know why I'm trying to talk to you. . . . I still remember Didion telling me I'd be killed if I ever told anyone about what happened in Atlanta. Oh, trust me, I haven't forgotten that . . . Just thought you should know what you did to Blair, and how devastated he is." 

Suddenly the line clicked off as Collin hung up. Sebastian set the phone down on the kitchen counter and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He shook his head and muttered, "God damnit. This is just what we need." 

* * *

Jim glanced up at the wall clock hanging in the bullpen. Ten o'clock. Blair usually came in at eight. He was two hours late. Jim sighed, then returned to his paperwork. And waited. At twelve o'clock, Simon asked him if he wanted to grab some lunch. "No thanks," he mumbled. "I'm waiting for Sandburg." One o'clock came. Still no Blair. By two o'clock, Jim's stomach rumbled angrily for food, and he couldn't ignore the hunger any more. He dashed downstairs to the Tube Steak hot dog cart outside the station, grabbed two dogs, then rushed back to his desk. "Hey, Brown?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Did Sandburg come by?" 

"Haven't seen him." 

Jim looked down at his hot dogs. He was getting a little shaky from hunger, but he didn't have much of an appetite. He forced the hot dogs down and returned to waiting. 

Finally, at seven, Jim had to accept that Blair wouldn't be coming in, and inside, like a cold block in his chest, he feared that Blair wouldn't be coming to the station ever again. /Never again./ Not even bothering to tidy up his desk, Jim lifted his coat from the rack and slipped quietly out of the station. 

A few minutes later, Simon -- working late -- stepped out of his office. "Good, Jim's still here. Anybody seen him?" 

"He just left," Rafe answered. 

"No, he's still here. His coffee cup's still got coffee in it." 

"So?" 

"So Mr. Regular Army never leaves without washing out his coffee cup." 

"Looks like he did this time." 

Simon shook his head. He never thought he'd say this, but he really wished Blair and Jim would get back together. 

* * *

That night, Blair didn't give an honest shit if Jim was in the loft or not as he stormed away from the elevator. He hadn't slept, constantly plagued by dreams of Jim sleeping with Lee, of the two of them together, laughing at him. Now, his skin crackled with energy, and his muscles were tight. As he stomped towards the door, his fingers rubbed the house key violently, like a worry stone, again and again before he forced the metal roughly into the lock. 

Upstairs, lying in bed, trying to read but only being assaulted by the black strikes against white paper, Jim heard the lock turn. One quick sniff and he knew it was Blair. He threw the book down, unconcerned what page it landed on, and he leaned across the railing of the second floor as Blair opened the door and stepped inside. Calmly, Blair lifted his eyes to glare at Jim, but he didn't say a word as he slammed the door shut then turned towards his former bedroom with two large boxes in his hands. 

Climbing down the stairs, Jim could hear Blair taking down his aboriginal masks from the wall and stuffing them into the boxes. By the time he made it to the guest bedroom, Blair was snatching down books from the bookcase. 

"Blair?" 

Blair ignored him. 

"I'm . . . I'm sorry." 

Blair stopped long enough to shoot Jim one last angry stare before turning his back on the sentinel to empty another shelf of books. 

"I . . ." Jim stopped as his voice cracked. Swallowing first, he tried again. "I told Lee to leave." 

Swiveling on his heels, Blair shot back, "So I guess you've kicked two men out on the street in less than a month." 

Jim closed his eyes in shame. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "It wasn't what you think." 

"I think you fucked him. Did you?" 

His guilty eyes focused on the floor. 

"I think you had so little respect for me, and for the three years we spent together, that you didn't even have the decency to wait a goddamned month before you fucked him!" 

"I did it in anger. I was so . . . angry." 

Jim had just enough time to see the book hurled at him. He ducked, and the text skidded across the floor. 

"Get the fuck out of here," Blair shouted, "and leave me the hell alone!" 

When the detective took a breath, he could feel how hollow his lungs seemed -- shaky and frightened. "Blair, please --" 

"Jim, shut the fuck up. I am packing up the last of my shit and I am getting the hell out of your life. Period. End of story. I don't want to hear your excuses. I don't want to hear your stories. And I so don't want to hear your goddamn lies." 

"I never lied to you!" 

"What do you call a broken promise, huh?" 

Jim tried to escape the room, but Blair chased after him. 

"You lied to me! How many times did you tell me you would never leave me? Huh? How many?" 

He tried to wave Blair off. 

"Answer me, how many times did I ask you about you leaving Tom and you promised that would never happen to me?" 

"This is different." 

"I don't see any difference! You were not there for Tom! You are not here for me!" 

Jim felt the words twist in his gut. 

"But at least Tom can say you never slept around on him. . . . Or did you? Is there another reason you left Tom . . . and not this knight in shining fucking armor bullshit you've been feeding me?" 

The sentinel spun around. "I never slept around on Tom!" 

"Oh! So you reserved that pleasure just for me? Well, fuck you!" 

Jim covered his face with his hands. This was not the confrontation he wanted. Blair's words stabbed him mercilessly while at the same time his own guilt slashed into him. His face and hands were burning so hot that his flesh itched, and his lungs raced for short gasps of air. "He came on to me. And I was angry. I was so goddamned mad that I wanted to hurt him. I wanted somebody to feel what I felt." 

"What YOU felt? What YOU felt? Who the fuck cares what YOU felt?" Blair grabbed the wooden bowl off to the table and threw it at with him such force that when Jim dodged it, the bowl cracked against the brick wall. "Huh? Who the fuck cares what you felt? You were the son of a bitch who threw ME out! When somebody wanted to kill me, you threw me out! What? Was the thought of my death such a fucking inconvenience that you wanted it to happen on someone else's turf? So THEY would have to take care of it and it wouldn't mess up your perfect _clean_ little world? You wanted me to die somewhere else? Well you wanna know something, asshole? I fought off a whole goddamn militia of men who took over the station. I have saved many peoples' lives -- including yours -- and I have even fought off a gunman with a goddamn laser pointer. I can take care of myself. I'm not some weakling who needs you to guard me. I'm a man. A fucking man. I'm as strong as you are and I can save myself. I have in the past. I can do it now. And I will be able to do it when I'm eighty years old and you are in the fucking GRAVE -- so there!" 

Jim could only stare with his mouth open at the onslaught of rage. 

"Why the hell should I care what YOU feel? What about ME, huh? Do you even give a shit about what I feel?" 

"I . . . . no . . . I still . . . . I still love you . . ." 

"You WHAT?!" Blair spun around, his vision tinged with red. He saw the book he had so recently thrown at Jim. He reached down, and he flung it at him again. Nothing else was nearby. Only the chairs. Grabbing both sides of the back of a chair, he shouted out his fury as his muscles sang with exertion, lifting the chair over his shoulders and pitching it directly at Jim with a shout. "Fuck you! Fuck your love! You don't love me! You don't know what love is! You never have! You never have!" 

An eerie silence fell over the loft as both men stared at each other. The only sound was the echo of their breaths gasping. Finally, Blair broke the stillness by snatching at the blanket which covered the back of the sofa. 

Jim lunged for it, catching the corner with his hand. "No! You can't take this!" 

"What do you mean, 'I can't take this'?" Blair tugged at it hard. "It's mine!" 

With as much strength as he could muster, Jim wrenched the blanket away from Blair. "This stays!" 

"You . . . you . . . I can't fucking believe you! That's MY blanket! I got that in Costa Rica!" 

"You can't take it." 

"But it's mine!' 

"YOU CAN'T HAVE IT!" 

"Fine! Fine! I don't give a shit anymore! Keep it if it goddamn pleases you! I. Don't. Care." He looked into Jim's eyes. He could see them filling with tears as the detective clutched the blanket to his chest, only Blair's rage blinded him to Jim's emotions. "I'm so over this," Blair muttered. "I'll come back and do this later. When you aren't here." He turned his back on Jim again and stormed out of the loft, smashing the door against its hinges a second time. 

The sudden silence was incredible. Squeezing the blanket tight, the rough black wool with vibrantly colored stripes that had always marked Blair's presence in the loft, Jim closed his eyes, and his lids pushed the tears over his eyelashes and onto his cheeks. He stumbled towards the stairs, taking each step clumsily until he finally stood before his wardrobe. Jim opened it, and at the bottom of the wardrobe lay a plastic garbage bag. Not even bothering it take it out, Jim fell to the floor then opened the bag, hugging it tightly. 

It was filled with the dirty laundry Blair had left that day Jim had forced him out. The wave of Blair's scent washed over him, and Jim pushed his face into the clothes, sobbing like a child. 

* * *

A few days later, the rain stopped, but the clouds remained, hanging over the city. Didion peered up through the sun roof of his Mercedes and frowned. /Why in hell did Bass want to move here, anyway? All this rain. Can't be good for you. Wish we could have stayed in Santa Barbara longer. I miss the sunsets./ Then Didion considered that thought for a moment. /Sunsets. I never really gave a damn about sunsets until I met Bass./ He sighed heavily, then inched closer to the car in front of him, the morning traffic at a standstill. 

His mind drifted to thoughts of Sebastian in Santa Barbara -- the two of them strolling the garden paths of the small cemetery behind the mission -- walking along the pier, throwing food to the seals -- horseback riding through the desert scrub in the hills. 

His wistful smile was disturbed by the high pitched chirp of his cell phone. "Didion Sachs." 

"Sir, it's Dr. Simmons, from your Research and Design Facility." 

Didion leaned forward in his seat. "Yes?" 

"Sir, I think we might have made a breakthrough in the sensory redevelopment drug treatment project." 

Didion squeezed the phone tightly. "Yes?" 

"How soon can you come?" 

"I'll be there tomorrow." 

* * *

Blair pushed the sheets aside, but he continued to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. Slowly, he wiped his face with his hands. It was another day. The dreams he had had of Jim coming back to him -- they were just that, dreams. And the ugly reality remained that Jim was not a part of his life anymore. And Jim had betrayed him. Jim had not only kicked him out of his life, he had also taken another man in his place, in less than a month. 

Almost an hour later, Blair stumbled into the kitchen. He remained lifeless as he stood by the coffee maker, leaning against the counter. Collin walked by, and he smiled sympathetically at the shabby figure in boxers and tee shirt. Quietly, he slipped next to Blair and poured him a cup of coffee. But before he handed him the mug, he hugged his friend. "Hey, man, at least you pulled yourself out of bed. Trust me, that's a major accomplishment." 

"I want to die," Blair whispered, and his seriousness alarmed Collin. 

"No you don't." He held Blair tight. "If you did that, you'd miss living with that wonderful guy who's coming next." 

"What if he doesn't come?" 

Collin pulled back and looked Blair in the eye. "Blair, are you proud of what you did before you met Jim?" 

Blair rolled his eyes. "I guess. And I already see where this is going." 

"Good. Don't let a man ruin who you are. Men who leave are cowards. They don't live up to their responsibilities in a relationship. They don't win in the end, because they spend the rest of their lives quietly regretting their failures, disappointing everyone they touch. You and I, we nurture. That's why we teach. And it hurts us every time when they abandon us. But it's the only way to live, man. The only way to live." 

"But Jim's not a . . . " Blair couldn't finish his sentence. 

"But he is, isn't he?" 

Tears slid down Blair's cheeks. "I thought that deep down he was such a nice guy. I thought he was so stable. I never thought he would do something like this to me. Every day he protected me. He acted like a goddamn watch dog. God, I'll never be able to trust a nice guy again." 

Collin brushed the tears away. "I know what you're going through. Not only did you lose the man you loved, but you lost your hero, too. He disappointed you. He let you down. And you aren't sure what hurts worse, being rejected, being betrayed, or being disappointed and disillusioned." 

Blair drank deeply from the mug. After he swallowed, he squared back his shoulders. "I'm never going to go through this again. First Jack, and now Jim." He turned, and walked toward the bathroom. "I'm never letting myself fall in love again. It's just not worth this." 

* * *

Sebastian sat at the bar in the kitchen, eating a bagel and reading a magazine. He looked up when he noticed Didion standing in the doorway. The assassin motioned for him. "What is it?" 

Didion pressed his fingers to his lips to silence him. Then he mouthed out the words, "bugs," and pointed to the ceiling. 

Nodding his head, Sebastian set down his bagel and followed Didion outside. Didion motioned for his Mercedes. Once inside, Sebastian whispered, "Are you sure there are no bugs in the cars?" 

"I just pulled the last one out." Didion started the car. 

As he drove out of their driveway, Sebastian asked, "What is it?" 

"I got a call from my R&D department this morning." 

"And?" 

"They've made some progress. It's not something they can discuss with me over the phone." 

"You think they've found a cure." 

"I'm hoping that's what it is. I'm flying out to New York tomorrow." 

Sebastian closed his eyes. "Dear God, please let this be the cure." 

"I know. I know. But I wanted you to know where I was going, and what I'm going to do." 

As they drove home, Sebastian began thinking. By the time Didion had parked the car, he had screwed up his courage. "Didion?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm thinking about . . . showing Blair . . . how to achieve a trance state." 

Didion squeezed the steering wheel. "Do you think that's wise?" 

"I'm really thinking it's more fair than wise. We almost owe it to them." 

"You don't think anything will happen, do you?" 

"No. I'll keep control of the situation." 

Didion watched Sebastian leave the car and enter the house, but secretly, he was extremely unsure of his lover's plans. 

* * *

Blair's blue eyes absorbed the words of the journal article effortlessly, not really noticing the spikes and circles of the letters but drinking in the thoughts directly, pausing only to view the photographs near the text before diving back in. He had lost contact with the objects in his office -- the desk and piles of papers -- as his entire world existed only in the village life of an Algerian Berber tribe. He could feel the desert heat, see the beige and yellow stucco homes, hear the gentle bleating sounds of herded goats. The ballistic rap of knuckles against glass startled him so hard that he shoved his chair back. "What?!" he shouted. 

The door open, and Sebastian peeked in. "I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?" 

Blair laughed at his reaction. "No, you just scared me, that's all." Suddenly, his eyes grew wide and he checked his watch quickly. "Oh shit!" 

"What?" 

"I've got class in ten minutes!" He jumped up from his seat and began to scurry around the office, grabbing notes and books. "Man, I am so dropping balls left and right these days." 

"I'm sorry. I'll come back later." 

He turned to leave and Blair called out to him. "Wait! Hold up a second." He snatched up some photographs, then said out loud to himself, "Okay, I've got my lecture notes, the pictures, the references, okay, I'm ready to go." He glanced up at Sebastian with a smile. "Man, if you hadn't come by, I'd have read straight through my class!" 

"I always wondered if you would be the absent-minded professor type." 

"I'd like to think I'm not," Blair nudged him with his elbow. "But I guess I have my moments. Walk with me. My class is downstairs. What's up?" 

"Just seeing what you were doing tonight." 

"Nothing, why?" 

"Didion flew to New York this morning. I've got the whole house to myself. Thought you might like to come over and we could work through your shamanism notes." 

"Really? Cool! I'd like that. It would give me a break from thinking about . . . " His voice trailed off sadly, and Sebastian felt a stab of guilt, forcing him to stare at the floor. 

Just outside the classroom, Sebastian stopped him. "Uhm, do you think you'd be interested in actually doing it?" 

Blair stared at him for a second with a shocked look on his face. "You can do that?" 

"Yeah, I've done it before. Several times." 

"When? How?" 

"Well, when you're a kept man --" Sebastian grinned "-- and you've got no job, you get a lot of opportunities to spend all day studying with people. It's really not that hard." 

Blair looked into the classroom then back at Sebastian, glowing with excitement and practically vibrating. "Yeah! What do I need to bring?" 

"Nothing. Just wear something comfortable." 

"Great! I'll be there! What time?" 

"I'm going to run by the market -- grab some things. Why don't you come around six and we'll have dinner and go over your notes." 

"Yeah. Yeah! I'll be there!" 

* * *

Standing in the polished white lab on the 17th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, Didion waited to meet with his research and development scientists. He checked his watch, then began to pace slowly. He passed by several rows of aluminum cages holding large primates. Some had white bandages over their eyes. Even through the gauze, their heads followed Didion. Others had ear muffs which they scratched at continuously, shaking. Still others wore gloves and soft cotton suits, and they shifted their weight constantly. As Didion walked past them, his mind wandered, thinking of how he was now no better than the heartless doctors who had experimented on him. /I'm making their small lives as miserable as my own. And what does Bass keep saying? Karma returns in threes?/ He stopped outside a cage as one of them, an older primate free of bandages, gave him a knowing look. Carefully, the primate pressed its callused hand through the mesh of the cage. Didion stepped closer and with sad eyes twined his fingers with the monkey's. 

"Sir?" 

Didion turned to look at a tall, slender man in a lab coat. "Yes?" 

"This way." 

He looked at the primate again. "This monkey here." 

"Yes sir?" 

"I want him released in the wild." 

"But sir, he'll die of cancer if we stop giving him the treatments." 

"I know that. You know that. The monkey doesn't. Have him released. Let him live out his life once, if only for a little while." 

"Yes sir." 

Didion squeezed the monkey's fingers one last time. Their eyes locked. The primate nodded and pulled his hand free, turning his back on Didion. The assassin looked down at the floor, then followed the lab assistant to a far corner of the research and development facility. Glass windows overlooked Central Park, and several scientists in white coats stood in a semi-circle in front of a large projection screen. "Carry on," Didion said calmly. The scientists began an animation of the brain, pinpointing the frontal lobes. 

"Okay," one of them began, "we know that the brain currently uses only about ten percent of its total mass for general human thought and interactivity, which means the other ninety percent is engaged in something we don't quite understand yet. With that in mind, we've been focusing on what the current treatments are doing to the brain's structure. Now, the way Project 57's current gene therapy works is this. It causes the pituitary gland to secrete hormones that then cause the brain to interpret sensory perceptions at a higher level, in nerve cells that normally don't interpret sensory data. That allows a subject to be able to see farther, hear more, sense more. In a sense," he offered lamely. 

Didion didn't laugh. 

The researcher began again. "Anyway, in those men and women who have the natural capabilities to produce these hormones, they aren't produced in the pituitary. These 'naturals' have glands behind the eye sockets that create the necessary hormones. And when we start manufacturing 'unnatural' adepts, the body attempts to make these glands. These failed attempts manifest themselves as cancerous tumors, and the individual eventually dies. 

"Now, for those who receive the secondary treatment, the additional serum keeps the body from creating the false tumors." 

"So what have you been able to create?" 

"Well, we have created a new gene therapy treatment that will actually produce the glands themselves, and it won't cause the pituitary gland to manufacture the necessary hormones to make hypersensitivity possible." 

"And this will help me how?" 

The researcher swallowed. "Well, it won't, I'm afraid. We can't get the new glands to turn on." 

Didion took a deep sigh. "Any success in being able to replicate Project 57's serum that keeps the cancer from forming." 

The researcher looked down at his hands. "No, sir. And if you stop taking the serum for as long as six weeks, once the cancer begins, going back on the serum won't be able to stop it." 

"Anything else?" 

"Well, we think we've been able to identify another possible treatment." 

"And that is?" 

"We have developed a formula that ceases the ability altogether." 

Didion stood up and walked toward the window. From his vantage point, his eyes could easily pierce the New York skyline, as far as to Central Park, where he watched two young lovers lying across a red, white and green quilt, kissing each other gently. 

"Will that keep the cancer from forming also?" 

"Yes. It appears so." 

He turned away from the window. "How far away are we from being able to stop the pituitary glands from producing the hormones, create the necessary glands, and then restart them?" 

The researcher paused. "Six months." 

Didion glanced back at the young couple so far away in Central Park. He now had a choice. He could remove his abilities and take Sebastian away. And also, leave Jim and Blair alone. But that would mean he would become prey to the other Project assassins. Or worse. To the _other_ , more dangerous assassins stalking them. The Order. The reason he and the other hypersensitive Army Rangers had been created in the first place. Quickly his mind flashed images of Sebastian when he was attacked by one in New York, leaving the ugly, diagonal scar on his lover's chest. /Unacceptable./ Didion looked hard at the researchers. 

"You have three months to make this possible, or I will kill you all myself." 

* * *

After a long dinner and several hours spent in the spacious stone and redwood library pouring over Sebastian's collection of textbooks on religious philosophy, Blair leaned back in the plush wing chair and stretched his spine. "My brain's getting numb," he complained. 

Sebastian smiled slightly. "Good. It will need to be." 

"Can we do it now?" 

"You sound like someone waiting to open Christmas presents . . . pardon me, Hanukkah presents." 

Blair tossed his pencil at him. 

Smiling, Sebastian stood up and stretched his long legs. "Come on. Let's do it." 

Blair leapt from the chair and followed Sebastian closely as they stepped down the hall, then started descending a flight of steps leading to the bottom floor. Blair noticed the pool room and the blue exercise mat. Just past the pool was a smaller, glass-encased room filled with tropical plants and a plush, off-white circular rug. He noticed a small stereo and myriad candles arrayed around the room. As Sebastian started lighting the candles, Blair asked, "What is this room?" 

"This is my meditation room." 

"Wow." 

"Now, Blair, I need to ask you something." 

"What?" 

"Uhm, are you still riding with Jim?" 

Blair frowned. "No. Why?" 

"Well, I have something for you to take to make this easier, but you won't be able to pass a drug test for a few weeks." 

Blair thought about it for a while, then he said, "I know from my research that most inexperienced shamans need to use psychedelics to help them achieve a trance state. It's in most recorded accounts that I've come across. And, well, I'm not riding with Jim anymore. So . . . I . . . I don't think it will be a problem." 

"Okay." Sebastian moved to a small cabinet near the stereo. "I wanted you to know that up front." 

"I appreciate that." 

Sebastian handed him a small metal pipe. 

"What is this?" 

"That's just marijuana. To help you relax some." Sebastian handed him a lighter. "I take it you have smoked pot before." 

"Don't I look like someone who's smoked pot?" 

"Well, yeah. And Collin told me your mother was still a big hippie." 

"Yeah," Blair grinned. "She's traveling in India now. But I haven't had a joint in three years." Then his voice grew wistful, "Not since I met Jim." 

After they shared two hits, Sebastian took the pipe from him. "That's enough. We don't want to get stoned. Just relax our conscious minds a little." He set the pipe in the cabinet, then pulled out several stone censers and small bricks of charcoal. 

"Aren't you going to burn sage?" Blair asked. 

"The Native Americans used sage. But most of my research has been on Eastern Mediterranean mysticism. I have an incense recipe that I found that comes from an Ethiopian monastery. I think it works better. This has a combination of cedar, frankincense, myrrh and some other scents." Once the charcoal was burning, he poured small amounts onto each of the coals until aromatic smoke began to permeate the room. 

Blair closed his eyes to enjoy the fragrance, but Sebastian's voice brought him back around. "I know most of your work has been with the shamanistic rites from the Amazon basin and in Papua New Guinea, but most of the information I've gathered is ancient Middle Eastern." He sat cross-legged on the rug, and Blair joined him in the same position. "The early Greeks, and the cultures that developed from Egypt up through Phoenicia and Lydia, seemed to focus on two particular gods to help them understand their own psychology, and Nietzsche does an excellent job of analyzing that in The_Birth_of_Tragedy. 

"There are two gods that represent two modes of being -- the apollonian and the dionysian. The apollonian represents the social strictures our culture places on our minds, to make us behave in social settings, the very culture that anthropology studies. 

"But the dionysian is the spiritual and animalistic aspects of our minds. To the Greeks, it was barbaric and dangerous, but incredibly powerful. It is viewed as highly destructive, but at the same time, the birthplace of our creativity. That you destroy to create lead to the belief in resurrection, in life after death. In their mythological language, you tore the flesh, but in three days the flesh reformed. Osiris, Dionysus, Adonis -- they all were torn to pieces, but in three days, their bodies were put back together. 

"The apollonian and the dionysian balance each other, like two sides of an arch. If you focused too hard on the apollonian -- on logic and rules -- then you lose the spirit of life and your ability to create. But if you focused too hard on the dionysian, then you could no longer function in society. Either way, the arch that makes up your sanity would fall. 

"Most mysticism follows these same precepts, but they have different terms for them. I just prefer these, but I'm sure you can make the connections with Native American mysticism." He reached into the cabinet for a large box. "So tonight, we are going to take down the apollonian sides of our minds, to let the dionysian express itself. It is irrational. It is the seat of our creativity. It is incredibly powerful and beautiful." 

"We aren't going to tear through Cascade like a couple of bacchantes, looking for raw flesh are we?" 

Sebastian grinned. "No, I should hope not. Our subconscious mind rarely gets a chance to speak to us, but when it does, it communicates in symbols." 

"Like dreams." 

"So most shamans will use psychedelics to help them visualize these symbols easily, and to work through them." He took a large chalice from the box and a small bottle. 

"What is that?" Blair asked as he watched the amber liquid being poured into it. 

"This is an extract that contains a type of mushroom, amanita muscaria." 

"Fly agaric," Blair commented. 

"So you've heard of it?" He smiled. "I met a professor in New York who is convinced this recipe is the ancient soma of Vedic India. It has the yellow color that the Rigveda says that soma had. This will help you visualize the symbols your subconscious will throw at you a little easier." Then he poured in red wine. 

"And the wine?" 

"Doesn't make it taste so bitter." Sebastian drank half of the cup, then handed it to Blair. He swallowed what remained, then gave the chalice back. The drink warmed his stomach, and the heat spread through his body. "There are herbs in it, too," Sebastian added, "to keep you from getting anxious or nervous, so you won't panic." 

He stood and turned to the stereo. "Now this music I got from a grad student at Berkeley who was studying the Sufi cults, especially in Turkey. He composed this music based on some of their melodies, but most of the instruments are modern." Sebastian hit Play, and slowly the music poured from the speakers like some aqueous snake rising from a metal bowl. A rhythmic pulse of drums beating washed over Blair and he felt his eyes close automatically. The rational centers of his brain tried to dissect the drums, to count how many and what types were playing, but before he could, a wave of string instruments -- double bass, viola, violin -- swept over him -- only to be followed by the hollow depth of several wind instruments. The music came to him all of a sudden, then grew quiet, falling back, only to rise up out of the mist to push him again, so much like the movement of oceans that even his breath followed its pattern. 

In the midst of this sudden wealth of sound, Sebastian's voice eased through, and Blair suddenly understood what his own voice must be like to Jim when he was zoned. "Blair, listen to the music carefully. Let your mind visualize it. It should come to your eyes as well as your ears. See it as movement, as each note being a step towards a goal. See the chords rise and fall and let it carry you. Let it reach your spine, then feel it. Like an itch. Move with it. Can you feel the itch in your spine?" 

"Yes," he whispered. 

"The sensation is akin to what the yoga masters describe when they talk about the kundalini, the serpent in your spine. But they envision the lotus opening at the seventh chakra. For the dionysian ritual, you simply want to let go, become passive, let the music move you. Follow it. For the Greeks it was possession. We know it as release. Your body knows what to do." 

Blair could no longer resist, and although his eyes were closed, he could begin to see colors flash before him, swirled like smoke, razored like lasers. The rhythmic drums made him twist and turn as he sat on the floor and he swayed to the heady music. The soft, warm flesh of Sebastian's palms on the backs of his hands made him sigh, and he let himself be pulled into a standing position. "Don't be afraid to dance," the fabric-like voice told him. "Move with it. Dance. Dance. And when you hear the woman's voice, let it take you. You'll know what to do." 

Blair's body dissolved as only his spine existed to move and twist like rope. The tune grew faster and faster and faster and he felt a sudden joy bloom in his soul -- a divine happiness -- an ecstasy -- and he wanted to shout out his rapture. He hungered for the soft, high tones of the singer that would take him further into bliss. 

Then he heard it and the surprise took him deeper. It wasn't soft. Or high. It was not the stereotype he expected. The woman's voice was deeper, almost nasal, like the buttery sound of a viola -- warm -- vibrato -- and it looked like a wide red ribbon of shaking cloth and when he realized he had actually seen her voice Blair snapped his eyes wide and he sucked in his breath hard like he had been slapped as his spine arched underneath him. His arms spread wide like the cross. His neck bent back. The glass ceiling was gone and had never been. Only the blackest sky hovered over him curved like a bowl -- thick and cold and deep like falling. Above him the stars glowed, but not pinpricks of light or pale twinkling things but animals that hummed with life -- tiny star beings who started as lines then pressed into rays spinning down, arcing slightly and dancing with him, thin spikes that once were white bursts but now lived as rainbow gradients of red no orange no yellow no green spreading into a cool blue now rich purple. Blair craved laughter as the beauty and the music continued to intoxicate him -- sway him -- and he had never felt such love of dancing and he wanted to dance forever if only to _be_ movement. 

The dizzying beauty and joy sparked his lungs, and from the center of his chest he felt something rising out of him, so large and solid that Blair straightened his spine and pushed up his chin to make his neck and throat one straight line and when it came out it was a howl of such power and wonder that Blair felt himself rising away from it, watching himself howl and become that howl alone of pure startling sound. 

He looked down, wanting to find Sebastian. The room was no longer a room but a jungle of a brighter green than he had ever imagined -- pulsing with warm yellow edges as the leaves and vines of the potted plants now no longer potted but growing such heights that he marveled with his smiling heart. The smoke of the incense rose like white prayer around them both and Sebastian's chin began to stretch upward, actually grow into a point as his black hair became only black color, spreading like ink down his skin and chest, his clothes no longer clothes but only space as the ink cascaded down and became black hair -- black fur. 

Their eyes met . . . 

only sebastian's eyes were no longer human eyes -- his fur grew longer -- his hands became fists and he stretched his wrists to the leaf-clothed ground -- his arms shrank into paws while spiked ears grew through fur and blair felt it in himself -- the need and prickling to stretch -- and his own hands fell to the ground -- turning gray first then growing a soft salt and pepper fur -- and as the jungle grew thicker around him blair wanted to sprint -- the energy sparked him to run and he did -- he ran, ran, ran through the hand-shaped leaves and their green stalks and the ground became a cloth-like blur beneath his clawing paws as the gray wolf gathered the power of the jungle in his breast and ran with a howl through the underbrush, turning once to howl for the darker wolf to follow him, to tackle him with a playful nip to his neck as they rolled in the humid leaves -- he barked -- and together they chased each other with the energy of puppies in a pure state of being that felt like liquid laughter in his soul -- 

* * *

Jim sat in his dark apartment, watching the flashing images on the television but not really following them. He had propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa, and he rested his head in his hand in a dark state of depression. He tried not to think about what he had done, how he had hurt Blair. But the deep smoky feeling of guilt and remorse in his chest continued to shift inside him. As he stared into the television screen, he wanted nothing more than to just zone, to take the hours from his life until something changed in his circumstance, until fate could untangle itself and Jim could return to his place, in Blair's life, in his own life. 

An annoying sound distracted him. His eyebrows crinkled softly. There it was again. A soft yelp. Jim lifted his head to hear. It wasn't a bark. The pitch was too high. 

Inside him, Jim felt something rumble. He spread his arms out slightly and looked down at his stomach. Then he realized it as the sound came to him again. It was a growl, a cat-like growl. 

Instantly Jim crossed the room to pick up the cordless phone. /Blair. Something's wrong. Something's not right!/ His fingers flew across the keypad, punching out the phone number to Collin and Blair's apartment. Jim paced as he waited for someone to answer. When he heard the monotone voice of the answering machine, Jim shouted and threw the phone into the cushions of the couch. 

* * *

Didion stood on the balcony of his penthouse suite, looking out into the huge metropolis of Manhattan, scanning the windows of other buildings, or watching the leaves of the trees many stories down sparkle against the street lamps as the winds jostled the limbs. Or, he would listen in on conversations, both in the hotel and in some of the nearby buildings. Anything to distract his mind from what he feared was happening in Cascade. He trusted Sebastian with his heart. He knew his lover would never intentionally betray him. But at the same time, having participated with Sebastian in some of his "bacchanals," he knew they could become highly charged. Didion tried to shake the thoughts out of his head as he strolled back inside his suite, but his mind continued to flash back memories of nights with his lover -- their sweating, naked bodies playing out the celestial visions in their psyches. /Maybe that happened because we are lovers. Maybe it won't happen with Blair. Blair's not his lover./ 

Even as he thought this, Didion was pulling his plane ticket from his briefcase. Quickly, his fingers punched the buttons for the reservations line. "I need to change my flight please. To the earliest flight available." 

* * *

Slowly rising from a deep, sound sleep he hadn't known in over a month, Blair sensed the comfort of body heat around him. Unwilling to move away from it, Blair sighed with pleasure, and his eyes remained closed as he slipped back into a state of half-sleep, feeling strong arms around his waist and the contact of flesh and chest hair soft along his back. And even as he roused himself to a fully-awake state, he wasn't shocked or disturbed that another man held him close. The sensation seemed different, unlike anything he had ever experienced with any other man, even Jim, from the simple fact that it felt so familiar. As if he had known this feeling all of his life. Like his own hand touching himself. 

Blair felt like he was holding himself. 

Rising, Blair rolled Sebastian onto his back. He leaned above his friend with his hand placed on his chest, over his heart, and even the heart rhythm seemed to be in synch with his own. In the morning light, Blair could easily see the tattoos marking Sebastian's lean, muscular body. As if stroking a pet, Blair ran his fingertips over Sebastian's hairy chest. Touching his body felt so comfortable for him. And as he looked down on the other man, inside his heart he sensed a strange emotion, akin to love but different. Closer. A deep bond at once passionate and spiritual. 

Suddenly Blair realized Sebastian's eyes were open and watching him. Making eye contact, the emotion bloomed even stronger, and Blair's mouth opened slightly from the power of it. Sebastian raised his arm, drawing his hand to Blair's back and pulling him closer, while Blair himself was irresistibly drawn to him. Their lips met, fitting in perfect unison, and as Sebastian sucked softly on Blair's mouth, their universe seemed to funnel down into just this sensation, this union, this sameness. When Sebastian finally broke their kiss, Blair nibbled on his goatee'd chin, then his neck, delighting in the burn of stubble, past the spider tattoo just above the clavicle, onto his chest then down the line of hair on his stomach, until finally Blair swallowed Sebastian's rigid shaft. All the while, the power of the familiarity of Sebastian's flesh overwhelmed him, causing the deep love he already felt to overpower him. 

Sebastian shifted his position until he could take Blair's straining erection into his mouth. Together, they sucked on each other, feeling the warmth and wetness on their cocks, feeling the stiff organs in their mouths. Sucking hard on Sebastian's cock only made Blair's own cock feel the tension. Just at the moment when Blair's orgasm burst, he pulled away from Sebastian's cock, and together both men exploded on each other's chest, and they fell into the haze of their mutual climax. 

* * *

As they sat at the stone breakfast table, neither Blair nor Sebastian could speak. And neither could make eye contact. Occasionally, Blair would look up from his coffee to check on Sebastian. The other man remained huddled over his mug, staring into its mirror surface. The pained and remorseful expression seemed so easily readable to Blair, as if he could somehow or other read Sebastian's mind. Finally, Blair had to look away, and at the same moment, Sebastian would look up to watch Blair. He knew Blair felt torn by the guilt that he had just betrayed his love for Jim; that same guilt reminded Blair that red anger still clouded his heart, of Jim betraying him first. Sebastian felt all of Blair's emotions deep within his own chest. 

"Excuse me." 

Blair didn't bother to look up as Sebastian left the room. In some strange way, he knew where Sebastian was in the room, and where he was going. He lifted the mug to his lips and waited for him to return. A few moments later, Sebastian stood beside him. 

"What we are feeling, it's not what you think." 

"I know. But I can't describe it." 

"This will help." Sebastian handed him a black book. Taking it, Blair realized it was a bound dissertation. _Interpersonal and Sexual Relationships Between Ancient and Mediaeval Mystics in Gnostic Cults_. "I found this dissertation at NYU. I knew something like this might happen, but I thought that because we both . . . had lovers . . . that it wouldn't. Hubris, I guess. Anyway, it should . . . explain some of the . . . things we're feeling for each other." 

Blair took the book as he rose from the chair. "Thanks. I . . . uh . . . think I should go now." 

"Yes. I think you should." 

* * *

Concluded in part three.


	3. Chapter 3

Due to length, this story has been split into three parts.

## Time Does Not Bring Relief II

By Kadru

Author's homepage: <http://www.mindspring.com/~kadru/index.html>

Disclaimer and notes can be found in part one. 

* * *

Time Does Not Bring Relief II -- part three  
By Kadru 

Didion opened the door slowly, afraid of what he might discover, when like a sharp jab in his face, the musky smell of Blair's sex struck him. His luggage fell from his hands, tumbling to the slate floor. Opening his hearing, he only found one heartbeat, erratic, hiding beneath the spray of water. Taking two steps at a time, he bounded up the curved stone staircase, racing down the hallway and into their huge bathroom. In the center of the room stood a tall stone monolith. The shower head had been installed inside it, and water sprayed from it and drained along the sides of the shower floor. There, huddled against the rough, honey colored stone, lay Sebastian, his dark hair flowing down his face like melting wax. Behind the shifting hair, Didion could see the purple marks on his lover's neck. How long he stood there, in shock, Didion wasn't sure, but eventually, he knelt down just outside of the shower's spray, and he reached out to touch Sebastian's shoulder. 

Sebastian lifted his head. His eyes were red from crying. They stared at each other for a moment before Didion's guide blubbered, "I . . . I'm so sorry." 

Ignoring his clothes, Didion slipped under the warm stream of water to hold him. "You . . . and Blair?" 

"Yes." Sebastian withdrew slightly. He expected to see anger. He wanted to see anger. He needed to see anger. Instead, he saw tiny crows' feet wrinkle the corners of Didion's eyes as his eyelids tightened with pain, and that hurt him even more, driving the knives of guilt into his chest. "Didion . . . Oh, god, Didion, I love you. I would die for you. I would do anything you asked of me. I love you! I love you!" 

Didion pulled him back into a tight squeeze. His voice was angry. "This is over, Bass. I've hurt you for the last time." 

"No!" he sobbed. "Please! Please don't make me leave!" 

"No, _we_ are going to leave." 

"But you . . . you can't." 

"I can, Bass. I've been a fucking coward for too goddamn long. When this is finished, you and I are leaving this . . . this life." 

"But you'll die." 

"I know I will." His eyes were thick with tears. "But Bass, I can't stand seeing the pain in your eyes. You . . ." He couldn't say the words. ". . . with Blair, because of _me_ , because of _what_ I am. Because of this goddamn mission. And there's only one way to redeem myself." 

"Please don't." 

"I don't think we'll find a cure in time. I have to give up on that. But if I stop taking the serum, I could live two years at least, and maybe as long as six." 

"Goddamn it, NO!" 

"Listen to me." He held Sebastian's sobbing face in his hands. "I would rather give you two years of peace, two years of love unburdened by what we've become --" 

"I'm happy now." 

Didion almost laughed. "No we aren't! Fuck, look at us! We're miserable. We exist only to bring pain. Don't you know what kind of sin we've heaped on our souls?" 

"Since when have you ever been concerned about sin?" 

"Since you came into my life." His kissed his lover softly, their lips mingling under the warm water. "Since you changed me." 

Sebastian shook him hard, finding his own anger. "Do you think I would be any fucking happier watching you die?!" This time Didion couldn't answer. "Can you really do that to me?!" 

"Bass, I can't stand watching _you_ die." They held each other for a long while, until Didion finally said with a colder tone, "Where did it happen?" 

"With Blair?" 

"Yes." Didion pulled back to stare into his eyes. "In our bedroom?" 

"Our bedroom is sacrosanct. It was in the guest bedroom." 

"Thank you." 

* * *

Sebastian brushed the towel across his skin slowly, almost in a daze. Didion had turned off the shower, handed him the towel and his robe, then walked away, leaving Sebastian alone in the bathroom. He took one last look in the mirror, taking in his shadowed, haunted eyes, Blair's love bites, and the small tattoo on his neck. A spider. He had marked himself with the spider a few days after his first lover, Chris, had killed himself. The guilt had followed him forever, and to ensure that it did, Sebastian had had the spider tattooed on his neck. The turtlenecks covered it, but it was always there. And it always would be. He tugged the collar of his thick terry cloth robe closer, trying to cover the black spider, then he slipped out of the bathroom. /I hurt everyone I touch./ 

Walking down the hall, he stopped momentarily outside the guest bedroom. For a few seconds, he continued to stare down the hall, not daring to look inside, but when he did, he noticed that the sheets had already been stripped, and a bare mattress glared back at him. /The smell. Didion can smell it./ He left the room, moving down the hall to the stairwell to try to find his lover. 

Sebastian discovered him in the great room, standing before the monstrous gas fireplace. Didion had cranked the gas high, and a roaring flame crackled. The assassin noticed his lover standing there, watching him from a distance. They stared at each other for a while, not saying anything, before Didion turned to the pile of sheets near his feet. Taking one of the sheets in his hands, he looked back at Sebastian once more, then he tossed the sheet onto the fire. 

The navy blue cloth didn't catch, and instead only bubbled around the edges. 

Didion waited, in shock, hoping the sheets would catch fire. 

"They aren't flammable," Sebastian said finally. 

Suddenly, tears streamed down Didion's face. 

* * *

=

The next night, Didion couldn't face going home. He had spent most of the afternoon, working with Minister Martiz on obtaining a list of ailments currently facing the Cuban population. The minister stalled, refusing to reveal what the Cuban health situation was, afraid that it could be used against them. Didion continued to argue that without it, he would not be able to sway the State Department or American public opinion in his favor, and he would not be able to secure safe passage of medical donations. Martiz was immovable, but Didion knew that. He knew this was simply a ploy to get closer to the Cuban delegation and nothing more, so he did not press the issue. 

But as he stepped towards the exit, he froze. Surrounded by the opulent Great Northern lobby, he seemed numb to the details. Even though he had managed to remove all of the traces of Blair's scent from his house, his memory and his imagination continued to play tricks on him. Constantly seeing the dark bite marks on his lover's neck pained him. Checking over his shoulder, he noticed the bar, and he decided to slink inside, to hide, and hope that circumstances would change around him. 

An hour later, Jim left the delegation and strolled toward the exit. While pulling his tie loose, his eyes glanced over at the bar, and he recognized Didion hovering over a drink. Jim cautiously approached him, but he could already feel the flush of body heat from his skin, and he could smell the very faint scent of vodka on his breath. As he came closer, Jim noticed the swollen red arteries in his eyes. "Didion?" 

Didion looked up, and the moment he recognized Jim, his eyelids drooped and his shoulders sagged. Jim watched this body language before turning to the bartender. "Hey, how much has he had?" 

"Enough," Didion interrupted. Then he pulled his shirt sleeve back to expose a small white bandage. "And I gave blood today. Makes me one hell of cheap drunk." 

"You aren't planning to drive home, are you?" 

Didion stared at him for a second before he finally said, "What profit it a man to own the world if he can't afford to take a cab?" 

"What?" 

"I can afford a cab, Jim. Hell, I can afford a whole goddamn floor of rooms here if I have to." Didion swallowed deep from his tumbler, then added sadly, "I might just do that anyway." 

Jim sat down on the stool beside him. "What's happened?" 

Didion's speech was slurred. "What makes you think something's happened?" 

"For one, you're drunk. And you don't want to go home. What's going on? Is it Bass?" 

"You don't want to know." 

"Try me." 

"No, Jim. Trust me. You don't want to know." 

Jim stared at his hands, then said. "That must mean it involves me." 

Drunk, Didion couldn't repress the laugh he knew he should have kept hidden. Even so, the assassin didn't care. 

"What's the laugh for? . . . Now I know it involves me." 

Didion's hand fell softly on Jim's arm. "Jim, I like you. Please don't make me say this." 

"You're starting to worry me. What's going on?" 

Didion tried to ignore him, finishing his drink and waving to the bartender for another. But Jim would not be distracted. "What's going on, Didion?" His voice was stern. 

Didion stared at him hard, weighing the options. /This may be another chink in their armor. Go ahead and tell him. Let him hurt as bad as you do./ 

"Jim?" 

"Yes?" 

"A few nights ago . . . Blair slept with Bass." 

Jim's jaw clenched, and his fingers tightened into a fist. His blue eyes drilled into the back of the bar as the rest of his body remained motionless. From his stool, Didion observed the detective, and his own heart dropped a little. /You just did it again, Didion. You just hurt this man. Again. You're addicted to it, to giving pain. You're a worm. You're a fucking worm and you deserve what's happening to you. And you thought you liked Jim. You thought liking him would make you a better person. Now you're worse. Now you're the shit of the shit./ Didion peered into the new drink the bartender brought over, watching the rainbow-play of colors swirl against the ice before drinking deep, tasting the bitterness of tonic and the tart of lime, then feeling the warmth of the vodka. The alcohol numbed the sensation, but it didn't hide the heavy feelings of loss and guilt. 

Finally, Jim moved. His heavy arm reached out and tugged on the bartender's sleeve. 

"Yes?" 

"I'll have what he's having." 

* * *

=

Miriam ran her hand through her long curly hair and sat back in her chair. The noise from the restaurant -- a mix of loud grunge and the buzz of the crowd -- only added to the atmosphere of the pizza parlor. She felt comfortable here, letting it remind her of nights at the Mellow Mushroom in midtown Atlanta at the corner of Tenth and Peachtree. Seeing Collin and Sebastian at her side only added to the nostalgia. 

Blair, though, was a new twist to the group. She had noticed how well he fit in the last few times they had been out together. But tonight, something was different. Something seemed . . . odd . . . between Sebastian and Blair. The first time she noticed it was when Sebastian had returned from the bar with a beer for Blair. She didn't remember hearing Blair ask for one, but what really struck her as strange was the way Blair reached behind him as Sebastian returned. He took the beer from her friend's hand without saying thank you or even acknowledging that it had happened. Then, a few minutes later, while Blair was talking about status symbols in industrialized cultures versus primitive tribes, he reached for the napkins. Without pausing his speech, Blair handed the napkins to Sebastian, never once making eye contact. 

She furrowed her brow as she watched them more closely. Collin was speaking, but she wasn't listening, studying the intimate but unconscious movements of the other men. 

Blair reached out and touched Sebastian's arm just as he was about to drink from his beer. "You need to slow down. You're starting to feel nauseous." 

"I'm fine. It's because I gave blood today." He pulled back his sleeve to reveal the bandage. 

Collin, distracted, had to comment. "Since when can a gay man give blood?" 

"It's a personal blood bank that Didion has set up for us." 

"Personal blood bank?" Collin asked. "What for?" 

"Ever since the accident in New York, Didion wants to make sure we have a reliable supply in case something happens again." 

Miriam interrupted. "New York? What the hell happened in New York?" 

"I was mugged one night." 

"Mugged? You were fucking mugged? Why the fuck didn't anyone tell me about it? When the hell did this happen?" 

"A little over a year ago. It's no big deal. Just scared me, that's all." As he lifted his arm to raise his bottle, Blair again pushed it back to the table. This time, Sebastian didn't argue. 

Miriam arched her eyebrow as she crossed her arms. /And just what the fuck is going between you two?/ 

* * *

=

Two days later, at the Cascade Convention Center, the cell phone in Didion's coat pocket chirped. He slipped it out and answered, "Didion Sachs." 

The computerized voice on the other end only said, "Confirmed," before the line cut off. 

Didion flipped his cell phone closed and slid it into his pocket. He searched the crowd for the Agricultural Minister, Rene Dias. 

At the other end of the main lobby, Rene Dias sniffed, a little in disgust, a little in ridicule, at the gathering of stiff-suited men and women who pressed against the other delegations. Outside, students continued to rant against the Cuban presence. /How the Americans can convince the liberal students to protest against us is beyond me./ And surrounding him, these corporate leaders of industry, they were not interested in maintaining the independence of the working class republic. They only wanted a chance to get in, to build their factories, to further alienate the Cuban workers from their production. He watched Didion Sachs come closer, his beige suit sharp and formal. /Ah, but you were once a warrior. I know you only too well. You still move like a hunter. And you present such a lovely gift -- these promises of medical donations. All a front. You get something, too, my friend, you get something./ 

Didion stopped at his side. "Is there some place we can talk?" 

Rene eyed him suspiciously. "This is your country, and your conference center. Shall I ask your soldiers where we will be _safe_?" He said 'safe' in a patronizing tone, as if making fun of a child. 

"Down the hallway," Didion pointed, "are smaller conference rooms and offices. We should be able to find one that's empty." 

* * *

=

Jim stretched his spine to peer over the crowd. He had to admit that guarding the Cuban delegation in their drab combat fatigues made them easier to spot among the well-dressed suits. He made a quick head count. To the left, the foreign minister. To the right, the finance minister. The two major dignitaries were here. Jim searched the crowd for the others. Then he searched again. /Someone's missing./ Taking the room in a quick glance, he realized he was missing the minister of agriculture. /Maybe he's in the bathroom,/ Jim thought, but his gut instinct told him something wasn't right. 

Three hallways radiated from the crowded main lobby. Jim scanned them with a cursory glance, then looked to the main entrance. Henri and Rafe were among those standing guard at the doorway. As he approached, both detectives looked up at him. "What's wrong, there, Jim?" Henri asked. 

"Have either of you seen anyone from the Cuban delegation leaving?" 

"You mean the guys in the fatigues?" 

"Yeah." 

"Nope. You didn't lose one, did you?" 

"Maybe he defected," Rafe teased. 

"I doubt it. These guys don't look like the defecting type. He must be inside somewhere." Jim turned and started checking the hallways. 

* * *

=

Didion found a small office at the end of the hall. He stepped inside and walked straight to the window. As casually as he could, he slipped his hand across the lock in the middle of the pane, opening it, then turned his back to face Dias. Taking a deep breath, he synchronized his heartbeat to match Jim's, as he had practiced. 

Rene pulled out a Cuban cigar, and Didion came closer, his hand reaching into his pocket for his gold cigarette lighter. "Allow me," he said, holding the flame near. 

"Gracias, comrade." 

While the minister puffed on the cigar, Didion, realizing he was now close to the door, nonchalantly turned his back, hiding his hands while he locked the door. 

"Mr. Sachs." Rene smiled, watching the man and knowing he had just locked the door. "Why do we dance this little dance every year?" 

Didion returned the false smile. "Am I not a good dancer?" 

"Not as good as your father, no." 

The assassin's smile faded. "I'm not my father." 

"So the son will always say." Rene puffed on the cigar some more. While he did, Didion focused his hearing into the hallway. He suspected Jim would be searching for them now. He would not have much time. 

* * *

=

Jim started with the first door in the hallway. The door led into a large conference room, but the only people inside were conference center employees, refilling the metal water pitchers. He stepped back into the hallway. Jim looked at his hands as a sort of nervous reaction. He knew he needed to use his senses, but Blair wasn't here. What if he zoned in front of all of these people. It would ruin his career. He scanned the crowd again. /You can do it, Jim. Just do it./ Slowly and carefully, he began to turn up his dials. From the last door at the end of the hallway, Jim could smell the pungent Cuban cigar smoke. 

* * *

=

"This year's harvest will exceed the previous year's record," Rene said. 

Didion came closer. "There won't be a harvest this year." 

Rene's eyebrows came together in a confused expression. "But my friend, you should hope so. Our little Cuban valley is the only place where the Manvillia orchid grows. What will your precious Project do without the roots of that orchid to produce your little secret drug?" 

"Last year we developed a serum based on the latest advances in genetic engineering. The Project no longer needs your orchids. Beside, you were always an extremely dangerous link in our chain, minister." 

"And we still are, Mr. Sachs. What would the American people think of a government that blockades our country yet secretly buys a rare orchid for mysterious drugs?" 

"They won't find out, minister." 

"Don't be so sure. We have kept very careful records." Didion tried not to register the minister's remarks as he reached inside the lining of his suit coat. "We know what was sold and when." 

"Less than five minutes ago, I received confirmation that those records were destroyed by two deputy ministers . . . who just so happen to be U.S. agents." 

"No! Impossible!" 

Didion finally heard Jim's heartbeat, and knew the detective was now in range to hear the two of them as well if he was using his senses. Without saying another word, Didion pulled a dagger from his jacket. Rene saw it, and his stomach cramped with fear. The weapon was clear acrylic -- and Rene suddenly realized it -- plastic -- to slip past the metal detectors. He almost smiled at its ingenuity. 

Without another thought, Didion struck with the speed of a viper. The dagger pierced the heavy camouflage cloth, split Rene's ribs apart and tore into the muscle of his heart. The minister was dead before his body hit the ground. 

Spinning around, Didion listened for Jim. The detective had heard Rene's body hit the floor, and he was now running towards them. Without much time, Didion hurried to find his cigarette lighter. Striking the flint with his thumb, he knelt over the body and touched the flame to the dagger. Instantly, the dagger erupted, shooting up a flare-like explosion that consumed the weapon instantly and seared the minister's flesh. Didion's face paled in its white light. Within seconds, the torch set off the sprinklers throughout the hallway. 

* * *

=

The sudden splash of cold water on his shoulders startled Jim as the alarms shouted. The surprised screams of other delegates spiked his hearing, already dialed high to listen for the Cuban minister. Pausing long enough to dial down his hearing, Jim rushed to the last door and found it locked. 

* * *

=

The sound of the doorknob rattling shocked Didion. He didn't realize Jim was this close. Quickly, Didion threw open the window and knocked out the screen with his foot to prevent fingerprints. Then he calmly reached into the lining of his sleeve and pulled out a small dart. He grabbed the dart by the tiny red feathers, knowing it would hide his fingerprints as well. The tip of the needle was also plastic, and without hesitation, he jabbed the dart into his neck. 

His heart shuddered to a stop, and his vision clouded as his heavy body slipped to the floor. 

Just then, Jim slammed through the door. As he stumbled into the room, first the absence of heartbeats settled in, then the gruesome smell of cooked flesh, and finally, the recognition that both Minister Dias and Didion Sachs lay dead on the floor. 

Spotting the open window, Jim vaulted over both bodies to look outside. No one. Then, ignoring the pelting water from the sprinklers, he sank down beside Didion. Instantly, Jim saw the dart in Didion's neck. Covering the dart with his hand to guard it from the water, he pulled it free, then sniffed it. /Poison./ 

Suddenly other officers and agents poured into the room. Jim looked up and shouted, "Get me an ambulance. NOW!" 

* * *

=

Blair looked down at his watch. It was nine p.m. Earlier today Sebastian had been with him in a bookstore when his friend had gotten the call from the hospital. A few seconds after answering his cell phone, Sebastian had dropped the books he was holding, and the sound of it slapping against the hard floor had alerted Blair that something was wrong. Sebastian could only groan, "Didion," before rushing out to his car, and Blair had been forced to chase after him. 

Now, in the hospital waiting room, the two of them sat in the uncomfortable chairs. From scrambling, to now this interminable motionlessness, it was driving Sebastian, and in turn, Blair, insane. Blair looked up. 

At the other end of the waiting room, Jim remained. He had been here with them since Didion had been dashed into the emergency room. He hadn't said much to them, except at six when he slipped beside Blair and asked, "Have you eaten anything?" 

Blair had stared at him for a second, then said with a cold voice, "I'm not hungry." 

"Oh. Okay." Jim then returned to his side of the waiting room, his shoulders sagging. 

Suddenly, the presence of a doctor standing in front of them distracted Blair. Sebastian peered up at him. "Yes?" 

"Mr. Sachs is awake, and he's asking for you." 

Sebastian bolted from his chair and ran into the room. 

Hearing the doctor, Jim stood up and came closer. He hovered outside the door, then approached Blair. "Do you . . . uhm . . . need a ride home?" 

"No. I think I'll stay here for a while longer." Blair stared at the detective. Less than a month ago, they were lovers. A few weeks ago, they had stopped even being friends. /This can't work like this, Blair,/ he told himself. /At least make an effort./ He took a deep breath and asked, "So what are the details?" 

"Huh?" 

"You know . . . with Didion?" 

"Oh." Jim sat down beside Blair in the space Sebastian had just abandoned. He could still feel the warmth from his seat. It feel good to sit beside Blair again, even though they weren't touching. Just the smell of him, and the proximity of his heartbeat. Jim glanced at him, but the intensity of his guide's critical stare was too much, and he looked back at his hands. "I . . . I heard only one heartbeat in the room. I guess it was Dias Whoever killed Dias had already poisoned Didion, I think. I can't . . . figure out how Dias was killed. It looked like a blow torch." 

"A blow torch?" Blair shuddered. 

"Yeah. The wound was all burned. Looks like the killer came in through the window, shot Didion with a poisoned dart, then killed Dias." 

"How did you save Didion?" 

"There was already an ambulance there, as a safety precaution. They started trying to revive him. Apparently, they got a heartbeat on the way to the hospital." 

"Where's Simon?" 

"He's back at the conference center, trying to make heads or tails of what's going on." 

"You don't have to stay here. I'll look after Bass." 

"Will you call me?" Jim asked. "If something happens?" 

"Yeah. Are you going home?" /Home. Our home./ 

"No. I'm going back to the conference center." 

Jim stood, and as he started down the hallway, he stopped and looked back at Blair as if he wanted to say something else. He gave Blair a half-frown/half-smile, then left. 

* * *

=

The hospital room was dark, except for a small light on the wall over Didion's bed. Sebastian stepped closer, and though he tried not to let the sight of Didion surprise him, inside his chest he could feel his muscles pulling tighter. An IV pumped fluids into Didion's arm, and an oxygen tube ran to his nose. His eyes were closed, and they were ringed by reddish-brown circles. His skin seemed so sallow, and Sebastian could see the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, around his lips where he smiled, across his forehead. /You look so much older./ Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sebastian came closer and sat on the bed. 

When Didion felt the mattress move, his eyes opened. Weak as he was, he could still hear Sebastian's heartbeat and the tension in his veins. His lover was upset, and he was angry. 

"You almost didn't survive this one," Sebastian snapped. 

Didion put his finger to the other man's lips. "Shhh. Jim's still out there." Sebastian frowned and looked away. Didion reached for his hand. "I'm okay. It just looks a lot worse than it is." 

"You look awful." 

"Thanks, I think." He tried to smile. "What's the word on the street?" 

"Dias' death is all over the news, but no one's released any details. They're just saying he was killed. Castro's making a lot of noise. The US is making a lot of promises to find the killer. This is really high profile, you know?" 

Didion listened for Jim. "Good, Jim just left." He looked up at Sebastian. "I know, this mission is just too much in the public spotlight. And the method the Project wanted me to use was too brutal. I don't understand why they wanted this during the summit. We could have easily gotten Dias in Cuba." 

"Any ideas?" 

"I'm guessing it's to draw attention away from the second hit. Or to make the Order assassins a little nervous." 

"The Order?!" Sebastian looked at him with sad, nervous eyes. "When can you come home?" 

"I doubt they'll let me go home until after tomorrow." 

"Oh." Sebastian stroked Didion's arm. "I guess I'll stay here, then." 

"Bass, I'm fine. You know how this chemical works. It only looks like I died, and it makes me look like shit." 

"I know that, Didion," Sebastian replied sharply, "but it doesn't mean I like it. Besides, you didn't tell me there was an Order assassin in Cascade. I don't like being . . . out in a city with an Order assassin, not without you around." 

"Okay, okay." He pulled at Sebastian slightly, and his lover eased down to lie on his chest. Didion kissed his forehead. "When this is over, where do you want to go? Venice? Florence? Istanbul?" 

"Someplace where there are no people." 

* * *

=

After Jim left, Blair sat in the hallway, waiting a few minutes by himself, before he decided to step into Didion's room. He stopped just inside the doorway when he saw the two of them lying in the bed, Didion's arms wrapped around Sebastian's back. Both men appeared to be asleep. As he watched them, Blair felt the sudden emptiness in his life. He and Jim would sleep like that, but it felt like a hundred years ago. He remembered how happy he once was, and although he had spent a great deal of his life as a loner, now he really felt loneliness. 

Feeling comfortable that both Didion and Sebastian were all right, Blair turned to leave. As he walked down the corridor with his arms crossed high on his chest, Blair stared at the floor, lost in thought. He hadn't received any more of the threats that had driven Jim to push his guide away weeks ago. And the pain of knowing that Jim had slept with Lee had been tempered by the night he had spent with Sebastian. He couldn't lie to himself -- he missed Jim. He missed his dry humor, and he missed his pats on the back. Blair even missed his temper tantrums. 

He paused while the electronic doors opened, then bundled his coat tighter to his chest when he felt the first blast of cold night air. /Okay, so you miss Jim. What else is new?/ Blair walked towards his car. /You're almost thirty. What are you going to do about it?/ He shoved his hand into his jeans to find his car keys. /Well, I could try and get back together with him./ As he unlocked the door, his mind offered, /Yeah, but Jim's the one who pushed you away./ 

/He did, but I can always try to win him back./ 

He sat down behind the wheel and started the car. As he waited for the engine to warm up, he started to consider. /Things were pretty good when we weren't lovers. When we're together, there is this whole big sex/love thing that's always hovering over us. That and the closet. When we were just best friends, we got along so much better./ 

Blair put the car in gear. /Is that what you want? Aren't you just cheating yourself if you don't try to get back together . . . I mean, really together?/ He drove out of the parking lot. 

/Or maybe I should just take this one step at a time. I mean, we've done some pretty rough things to each other the past couple of weeks. Maybe we should just take this one step at a time, until we trust each other again./ 

When he thought of the word trust, his stomach felt cold. Trust. That was Jim's main priority in life. Trust. And did Blair trust him? /I guess not./ 

/So what are you going to do, huh?/ 

He stopped at a red light. /I guess I start all over. At the beginning. At the station. Riding with him./ Blair tapped his turn signal, then drove towards the conference center. 

* * *

=

The conference center was cordoned off by police cars. Two uniformed cops Blair had never really seen before stopped him from driving any closer, their flashlights blinding him while he dumped his backpack on the passenger seat. "It's here, somewhere," he said as he scattered books and papers around. Then he saw the plastic gleam underneath a pile of papers and he fished it out. "Here." He handed them his observer's pass. One of the officers read it, then motioned him with the back of his flashlight to go ahead. 

Blair strung the pass over his neck while parking his car next to Jim's blue truck. Federal agents, security officers and Cascade PD crowded the area, and Blair waved to a few of the officers he recognized as he climbed the steps past two large, brightly lit fountains to look for Jim. At the glass doors, Blair spotted Rafe. 

"Hey, Hairboy, long time, no see. You looking for Jim?" 

"Yeah, where is he?" 

"He's down that hallway." 

"Thanks, man." 

"Hey, Hairboy?" 

Blair turned, walking backwards. "Yeah?" 

"Good to see you around." 

Blair smiled before heading down the hall. As he walked among the uniforms and suits, the strutting displays of machismo and manhood -- even among the women -- the old feeling of absurdity struck him. Was anyone here even conscious of it -- this puffing up of chests and steely bravado -- these kings of the hills? It felt good to be surrounded by this again, if only because these gorillas accepted him, and that they -- if only for slight glimpses -- let him see that they were vulnerable human beings, too. Then Blair spotted Jim standing beside Simon, trying to hide his agitation behind a stoic mask and clenched jaw. /How little things change,/ Blair thought, and oddly enough, it made him feel comfortable to imagine that time had turned back on itself, and that he and Jim had never been more than just friends. 

Jim looked up, as if he could feel Blair thinking about him. Simon noticed Jim's reaction, and he turned, chewing on his cigar. Both gave the academic subtle, closed-mouth smiles. When Blair was close enough to hear, Jim asked, "What . . . what are you doing here? Is Didion all right?" 

"Thought you could use a hand." 

Jim nearly bit his tongue, trying to hide the glow on his face Blair's words brought him. Despite trying to hide it, the spark in Jim's eyes made Blair smile a little himself. 

"Didion's okay? Nothing's wrong with him?" 

"Didion's fine." Blair answered. "I left Bass with him." 

"Good . . . good." 

"Have you . . . gone over the scene?" 

"No. Not yet. We're waiting for the Feds to finish up." 

"Still? I thought you said Dias was killed this morning." 

"He was," Simon replied. "The Cubans won't let anyone near the body. They flew it out as soon as they could to do an autopsy in Havana. The Feds are going over that room with a microscope. It's the only evidence they have." 

"They won't even let you guys inside?" 

"No," Simon huffed. 

"Why not?" 

"Said they were covering the case. We aren't involved at all." 

"Is that why you're so upset?" Blair said to Jim. 

Jim looked down at his feet, then back at the room where Dias was killed. "You can tell?" 

"I'm still your guide." 

"Are you?" Jim's voice was uninflected -- showing neither anger, nor fear, nor hope. 

Blair wanted to say something, only he wasn't quite sure what to say. He scratched at his thumbnail, avoiding eye contact, while his mind flipped through his thoughts like so many slips of paper. This awkward moment was finally broken when Jim noticed the federal forensics team leaving the room. "Come on," he whispered. "Now's our chance." 

As Blair started to follow the sentinel, Simon reached out and patted him on the shoulder. Blair turned, expecting him to speak, but Simon only mouthed out the words, "thank you," perhaps knowing Jim could have heard him if he had said it out loud. Blair quickly moved to Jim's side. 

"Talk it out," Blair said softly. "Tell me what you were doing when it happened." 

"I was trying to find Dias. I didn't really think something was wrong, I just felt . . . I don't know. Something wasn't right." 

"So what did you do?" 

"I dialed up my sense of smell." 

"Why smell?" 

Jim looked at Blair with an uncomfortable expression. "There were too many sounds. I was afraid I might zone on them." 

Blair felt his own guilt, that he wasn't there for Jim, but he tried to shake that off. /It's not my fault I wasn't here!/ When he realized he was getting angry, Blair began taking slow, even breaths to calm himself. "Then what?" 

Jim seemed far away as he started to remember. "I could smell a Cuban cigar . . . . I tried to trace it." He began to walk down the hall, as if in a trance, and Blair followed close. 

"Did you hear anything?" he whispered. 

"Yes. I heard someone shout something." 

"What was it?" 

"He shouted out, 'no'." 

"Who?" 

Jim thought for a moment. "It was Dias." 

"Did you hear anything else?" 

"I dialed up my hearing then. I remember it happened almost automatically -- that I could hear. There was one heartbeat. And it just suddenly stopped." 

"Didion's or Dias?" 

"I don't know. My gut tells me that Didion was already dead." 

"Think back, Jim. Focus on just the sounds. Start at the time you heard Dias shout, 'no,' and move from there." 

Jim stood outside the doorway to the room, and rather than going inside, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Tentatively, Blair touched Jim on the shoulder. "I . . . heard the voice . . . then my hearing just came on . . . heartbeat . . . one of them . . . very rapid . . . cloth moving against cloth . . . then . . ." Jim's face wrinkled with confusion. 

"What is it?" 

"It sounded . . . it sounded like someone being stabbed. The heartbeat stopped. And then a thump." 

"Okay, okay," Blair was clearly getting excited. "Then what?" 

"I remember I was running. More cloth against cloth. Then something that sounded like . . . hissing." 

"Hissing?" 

"Wait," he held up his hand, as if he could still hear it. "No, it was like a cigarette lighter." 

"Like flint?" 

"Yes. And then a 'whoosh' sound, like a flare going off." Jim's eyes opened wide. "Then the sprinklers went off." 

"So whatever fire set off the sprinklers was started by a cigarette lighter." 

Without saying a word, Jim entered the office. The outline of Dias' body remained taped to the water-soaked carpet. Jim glanced up at the ceiling and spotted the charred circle on the insulated ceiling tiles. Blair remained at his side, and he said, "Jim, if it burned the ceiling right there, then it had to have come from Dias' body." 

"Yeah, I know." 

"You say you heard something that sounded like a stabbing." 

"Dias was stabbed with a flare?" 

"Wait a minute, Jim!" Blair seized him by both arms and shook him with excitement. "I remember reading once -- about this man -- he was --" Blair slapped him on the chest "-- he was stabbed with an icicle!" 

"What the hell are you talking about?" 

"Don't you see! He was stabbed by an icicle, and by the time the police got there, the icicle had melted. No murder weapon. No fingerprints. Nothing. Just a hole in his chest. Almost like that movie where the wife clubs the husband with a frozen leg of lamb and then serves it to the police who come to investigate. No murder weapon!" 

Jim knelt down beside the outline of the corpse, then peered up at the burn mark. "So I heard the killer use a cigarette lighter to set the murder weapon on fire." 

Blair continued as he paced the room. "So whatever it was that stabbed him was flammable, right?" 

"One hell of a Cuban cigar," Jim said dryly. 

"So what do you smell?" 

"Smell? This place smells awful." 

"It's the water, Jim. Smells are stronger the more humid the environment is. Start separating them." 

Jim wrinkled his nose. "I smell cooked flesh." 

Blair squeezed his eyes tight and twisted his mouth to fight back a sudden wave of nausea. "Okay, that's good, I guess. That means we're on the right track. What else?" 

"Cigar." 

"Keep going." 

"Something . . . plastic . . . like burning tires." 

"That's it! That has to be it! You're smelling the murder weapon." 

Jim stood up, then moved toward the window. A large oval drawn with white tape marked where Didion was found. His body had been moved by the EMT's before forensics could outline his exact position. 

"Is that where Didion was?" 

"Yeah. I found a dart in Didion's neck. The needle was plastic." 

"Why would that be made of plastic? Did that have to burn?" 

Jim shook his head, unsure of the answer. 

"Why wasn't it made of metal?" 

The detective looked toward the doorway. He thought of the security measures at the conference center entrance. "Metal would have set off a metal detector." 

"That means the killer had to bring the weapons inside. Maybe that's another reason why he stabbed Dias with something plastic. But why stab Dias in the chest, and poison Didion with a dart. Why not poison them both?" 

"Good question." Jim examined the window next. It had been open when he had broken through the door. Jim leaned out of the opening. The room was on the second floor, with no visible means of climbing in or out. Focusing his vision, Jim scanned the ground. He could see no impressions of a ladder, or footprints, or any disturbance in the landscaping below. And no scuff marks on the ledge. Coming back into the room, he said, "Whoever did this did not come through this window." 

"Maybe that's how he got out. Was he already in the room?" 

"The door was locked when I got here. I was out in the hallway, walking towards it. I didn't see anyone come in." Jim slowly spun around the room. "There's no way inside but through that door." 

"Jim, how long after you heard the cigarette lighter did the sprinklers start?" 

"It couldn't have been more than a few seconds." 

"I don't know a lot about plastics, but I don't think they burn that fast. And if Dias was lying on the floor, then when the weapon caught fire, that's a hell of a long flame to burn the ceiling." 

"I know what you're thinking." 

"Whoever killed Dias used something really high-tech, something designed to burn up in a few seconds." 

"That means he wasn't some Cuban emigre, or some Latin American assassin. This guy was well supplied." 

"By a first-world government," Blair said slowly, "or a major chemical company." 

Jim eyed Blair hard. "I think we've seen enough here, Chief." 

Blair twitched suddenly. /Chief./ The words struck him hard, but from a sense of comfort. He felt himself relaxing suddenly, the naturalness of the name slipping over him like a blanket. 

Jim heard the hitch in Blair's heartbeat, and he smiled softly. "Saying that, that felt good," Jim whispered. "That felt . . . right." 

But Blair froze up suddenly, and he replied with a firm tone. "Don't misread that." 

The detective looked down at the floor, nodding his acceptance. "We need to question Didion as soon as we can." 

"Not tonight, though." 

"First thing in the morning." Jim's voice was now hard and professional. "Can I pick you up tomorrow morning at 7?" 

"I'll be ready." 

* * *

=

Didion was sleeping peacefully on his side, and in the dim light, Sebastian watched the silhouette of his body rise and fall with his breath. He sat in the chair near Didion's bed with his hands in his lap. /An Order assassin. There's an Order assassin in Cascade./ With trembling fingers, he traced the scar across his chest, and his mind drifted back to that night in Manhattan. 

\--- 

The sky that night had seemed orange with the reflected city light, what strips of sky Sebastian could see between the tall New York City skyscrapers. He glanced down at the paper sack holding a fresh bagel with lox while his other hand held a book. /Where else but Manhattan can you buy a bagel and a book by Audre Lorde at 3 a.m.? And just blocks away from your home?/ Self-satisfied, Sebastian strolled down the sidewalk, humming a Bach melody. 

He didn't notice the stranger who suddenly darted into his path and dragged him into the shadow of a building. The book dropped onto the sidewalk, and the paper bag fell open, the bagel rolling into the curb. Sebastian reacted quickly, recalling Didion's training, and he swiftly elbowed the assailant in the ribs, then turned sharply to cuff him across the cheek. As his fist made contact, Sebastian's mind seemed disembodied as he marveled on how hard the stranger's flesh felt. Only, this distraction didn't last long before his assailant smashed his own fist into Sebastian, into his ribs and abdomen and across his face. In minutes, Sebastian collapsed against the brick building while the stranger loomed over him. 

"You little Project plaything. I'll take great pleasure in killing you." 

Through his swollen eyes, Sebastian peered up at the stranger. He seemed smaller, thinner than Didion, but dressed completely in black with a black mask. His brain addled, Sebastian snickered through his broken, bleeding lips. "You look like a black dog." The assassin slapped him hard, and Sebastian laughed again. "Woof. Woof." 

Suddenly there was the flash of amber in the air, and Sebastian recognized the glare of the street lamp reflecting off the killer's steel blade as he raised a small, two-foot long sword. "Your Project assassin will be lost without you, little plaything. Imagine his grief before I take your life. Imagine his pain. And know it's all your fault. It's all your fault." 

At his cruel words, Sebastian stopped laughing, and instead his heart froze. He stared at the slightly curving blade and swallowed hard. /Didion. I love you./ 

But before the blade descended, Sebastian heard the blaring sound of a horn. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a taxi driving down the street. The taxi driver had seen them, and he pressed down on his horn to distract the killer. Jerking his head back, the assassin recognized the threat. He looked down at Sebastian, then waited a second, but that second seemed to last forever before he saw the killer's muscles moving. The blade slashed downward, cutting through the cloth of his shirt and slicing across his chest. His upper body burned with spurting blood. The assassin lifted the blade again, but in his delirium, Sebastian didn't notice the blade fall from his hands. The assassin darted away, gripping his arm and disappearing into the New York City background. His vision growing cloudy, Sebastian snickered one last time. /Saved. By a taxi driver. Whoda thought?/ Fainting, he only barely recognized Didion standing over him, his gun still warm from firing. 

\--- 

Sebastian rubbed the scar on his chest. His memories of that night after the Order assassin ran away were only vague bubbles. Images of Didion stroking him, begging him to live, his usually stern face wet with tears. A floating sensation of being wheeled around the hospital on a gurney -- or was it in the ambulance? Or was it both? More than anything, it was the overall feeling of being numb -- numb to fear, numb to pain. Sebastian looked over at his lover, asleep on the hospital bed. /He never left my side, the entire time./ He opened his hand to stare into his empty palm. /And he never let go of my hand, either./ 

He stood up. /I need something to drink./ Pushing his hands into his jeans pocket, Sebastian searched for change as he left Didion's side, counting out the coins. His mind wandered, and he didn't focus on his surroundings. He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the dull pattern in the floor. Occasionally, he rubbed his arms, as if cold, trying to comfort himself. He passed by dark, empty rooms, not noticing their vacancy or even their existence. 

Suddenly the floor shifted under him, and he felt a vise-like grip around his neck. Unable to call out, surprised by the jerking motion, Sebastian sensed the hallway slide away from him, then the frame of the door, until there was only darkness in the empty room and the pain crushing his throat. In an instant, the merciless blow of a wall slamming into his back nearly caused him to black out. Forcing himself to stay conscious, he grabbed at the arm that held him by the throat and tried to wrench himself free. 

"Your boyfriend played a messy hand." 

Sebastian recognized the voice. Phillip Harrison. Didion's Level 2 agent. He tried to knee Phillip in the groin, but the agent blocked him easily, then reached out to shut the door. Once it was closed, he dragged Sebastian to the window. When the street lights cut through the windowblinds, his face appeared in the stripes of amber and black. Sebastian's anger burst from him as he registered the soft boyish face and very short hair. He struggled harder. "What the hell do you want, Phillip? Why the hell did you come here?" 

Phillip let him go, and his face snaked in closer to Sebastian's. "Your man ordered me to check in with him. Just following his command." 

"What do you want?" 

"I want to know what the hell's going on." 

"That's Didion's concern. Not mine." 

"He's slipping up. Is it your fault?" 

Sebastian shoved him hard in the chest. "Get out of my face!" 

"Such a pretty little face," Phillip whispered. His finger traced Sebastian's cheek. Then he sneered. "Just what is it that you do for him?" He came closer, and through the stripes of light, Sebastian could see the animalistic glint in his eyes. "Do you suck his cock?" Sebastian could feel his breath on his neck. "Does he slide his cock inside you, nice and tight, like a greasy fist around me, so tight." Phillip's lips pressed against Sebastian's cheek, but when he felt the stubble on the other man's skin, Sebastian's maleness suddenly shocked him. In a rage, he threw Sebastian to the floor and began pacing around the empty hospital bed. "What the fuck's happening to me?! I don't want men! I don't want men! I want women! Why can't I get you out of my head?!" 

From the floor, Sebastian sighed, rolled his eyes, then rubbed his face with his hands. "Jesus, do I have to go through this again?" 

Phillip heard him. "What are you talking about?" 

Sebastian sat up. "Phillip, how long have you been an agent?" 

He came closer, a little calmer. "Two years." 

"Didion was an agent for four years when we first met, and he was going through the same . . . crisis you are." 

"What do you mean?" Phillip sat down on the floor with Sebastian. 

Watching his lithe body, with his muscular, broad chest but his waist more narrow than Didion's, Sebastian couldn't help but feel some attraction to him. With his huge doe eyes and his brutally short hair, he seemed so child-like, and his naivete came across as so vulnerable. "Phillip, I don't know why it happens, but there is something else going on with these extra sensory perceptions. Regardless of your sexual orientation, as your senses become more heightened, you begin to feel an attraction to other men. Most of what I know about natural hypersensitives comes from the ancient world, and they were bonded to other men who acted as their . . . sidekicks for the sake of a better word. Only no one in ancient Greece gave a damn. Some . . . researchers . . . are calling primitive hypersensitives 'sentinels,' and the men who guard over them as 'guides.'" 

"Guard over them?" 

"Yes. A guide is someone who makes sure you don't overfocus on one sense at the expense of the others." 

Phillip snapped, "What does this have to do with me turning into a faggot?" 

Sebastian scratched at the back of his neck in frustration. "I don't know the answer to that, Phillip. That's what I'm trying to tell you. No one does. And do you honestly expect the Project to tell you right off the bat, 'Hey, we've got this great opportunity for you -- you can see for miles and hear through walls -- oh, and yeah, it's gonna turn you into a cocksucking faggot who likes to take it up the ass'?" Sebastian could sense Phillip getting uncomfortable, but he kept on. "Not likely, huh?" 

Both were silent for a moment, then Phillip's tired voice spoke. "They didn't give me a choice." 

Sebastian said nothing. He waited a while for Phillip to continue. 

"I was in a hospital for a broken arm. A few weeks later, I couldn't see right. My ears hurt like hell. My skin was burning. Then this herd of doctors stood around me, telling me what they had done, and I had a choice -- I could die of cancer or I could . . . do this job." He looked hard at Sebastian. "What the fuck kind of choice is that." He squeezed his fingers into a fist. "Now this." 

"Phillip, there's nothing wrong with wanting another man." 

"Jesus, it's wrong! It's against nature! And it's against God!" 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. For starters, it isn't against nature. Other animals do it all the time, and another thing, it's the gene therapy that's causing this -- so how the hell is that not 'natural'? And one more thing while I'm thinking about it," Sebastian grabbed Phillip's shirt and pulled him hard. "I think God has more of a problem with you killing my cousin's lover in cold blood." 

Phillip wrenched himself free. "What the fuck do you want me to do, huh? If I don't follow orders, they don't give me the serum. If I don't take the serum, I die." He sighed. "Hell, they'll probably just shoot me if I don't follow the orders anyway." 

"Like you'll shoot Didion. Right?" 

Phillip eyed him hard. "That's my orders." 

Sebastian threw his head back. "Man, how are we gonna get out of this?" 

"I don't know. . . . You seem to know more about what's going on than I do." 

"If you call it that." 

Again they were silent for a few moments until Phillip asked, "What should I do?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"About this . . . gay stuff?" 

"Don't fight it. And don't beat yourself up for it. One day, you'll meet someone who you know is your guide. You'll know it. It will be something about his voice. Go slow with it. Just as there's something natural about hypersensitives, there's something about guides. He'll know you, too. And once you know he loves you, I mean, really loves you, then tell him about all of this. Trust me, it's gonna scare the shit out of him, and he's gonna run away, but eventually, he'll come back to you." Sebastian sighed. "I know from experience. He won't have a choice." He patted Phillip on the shoulder. "Now, you need to get the hell out of here. And so do I." Sebastian stood up, and he quietly left the room without looking back. 

In the dark, Phillip watched him go. He breathed in deeply, savoring his scent. Closing his eyes, he could easily imagine Sebastian's weight under him, moaning as he pierced him, joined his flesh into his body to feel one with him, their hearts beating in unison. "Sebastian," he whispered, "you're the one I want. You're my . . . guide." 

* * *

=

Didion lay on his side in his hospital bed. He was awake when Sebastian had left, and he almost leapt from his bed when he heard Phillip yank his lover into the empty room. But something made him remain, and he easily eavesdropped on their conversation. As he listened to Sebastian soothe the younger agent's fears, he felt something akin to pride for his lover, and a little remorse. 

Then he heard Phillip's whisper. 

"Sebastian . . . you're the one I want. You're my . . . guide." 

His heart turned to malice. /Major fucking mistake, agent. Major fucking mistake./ 

* * *

=

Both Didion and Sebastian were in a better humor the next morning, the assassin's body back to normal. Sitting up in bed, Didion flipped the page of the Architectural Digest magazine he was reading. "Hey, Bass?" 

"Yeah?" 

He held up a picture of a Mexican hacienda. "What do you think?" 

"Looks nice. Where is it?" 

"Outside Veracruz. Would you like to live in a place like that?" 

"Reminds me of Santa Barbara." 

Didion turned the magazine back around to stare at the picture. "Yeah it does." 

Suddenly, the smile on his face disappeared, and he glanced up at the door. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and regained control of his heartbeat just as Jim and Blair entered the room. For a quick second, he realized that Jim would still be able to read Sebastian's heartbeats, even if he covered his own. Opening his eyes, in a calm tone, he asked, "Jim? Blair? Are you two back together?" 

Blair stared down at his feet quickly. "No. No, we're not." 

Jim didn't notice Blair's response. Instead he focused on Didion's heartbeat. Just before they entered the room, it sounded slightly irregular, but now it seemed very mechanical. 

"Uh, what's going on?" 

"I want to ask you a few questions about yesterday." 

"Is the Cascade P.D. involved? I figured the Feds would handle this." 

Jim ignored him as he opened the folder in his hands. "According to the Feds' report, there weren't any fingerprints in the room. They think the sprinklers distorted them." Jim lifted his blue eyes to drill into Didion. "However, your cigarette lighter landed under the desk. It was the only thing that didn't get wet, and your fingerprints were all over it." 

"It was my cigarette lighter." 

"The minister's body was burned by something. There were burn marks on the ceiling. And something set off the sprinklers." Jim narrowed his eyes. /I heard a cigarette lighter ignite whatever it was that killed Dias. It has your fingerprints and no one else's./ 

Didion stared into Jim's eyes, his heartbeat still a monotone, when suddenly his eyes snapped toward Sebastian. Jim let his gaze follow to the young man, and when he saw Sebastian, he also registered the other man's heartbeat accelerating. 

"I don't think I like what I'm hearing," Sebastian said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm leaving to get some coffee." 

To distract Jim's observation of Sebastian's reaction, Didion replied, "I don't understand what you're asking me." 

"Did you use your cigarette lighter in the room?" 

"Well, yeah. I lit one of Dias' cigars. Hell, I had been lighting Cuban cigars all day. Then I felt something sting me, and I don't remember anything else." 

"You were lying on the ground by the window. The cigarette lighter was under the desk. Did it fall all that way?" 

Didion shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what to tell you, Jim. I don't remember anything after that." 

"And why were you alone with the Cuban minister?" 

"I was trying to negotiate how to deliver medical donations and find out what they needed." 

"With the agricultural minister?" 

"He was the only one I had met before the summit." 

"Wouldn't one of the other ministers have been more helpful?" 

"Maybe. I had already spoken to the other ministers before I met with Dias. Cuba is very political. Every ally helps." 

"To receive a gift? What help do you need?" 

"To make sure it gets to the right people." 

"And why Cuba?" 

"Because they need it the most." 

"Most third-world nations can use medical donations. Why Cuba?" 

"It was just a left-over from my father's goals. He always tried to give medical donations to Cuba. I did some research and decided why not? Besides, it's a challenge, working through all the red tape and politics. I like it." 

"Okay. But why this challenge? Why give medicine? Why not something else, like food?" 

"It's what I have -- medicines. If I can give it to someone who needs it, I like that." 

Jim just nodded his head. "And they seem most needy to you?" 

"I think I'm the only man in American industry bold enough to want to see it happen." 

Jim frowned in thought, staring down at the Feds report. He closed it, then smiled. "Thanks, Didion. I'll keep in touch." He turned and walked out of the room. Blair followed quickly behind him. 

"What are you thinking?" 

Jim held his fingers to his lips until they stepped onto the elevator. After the door closed, and several floors separated them, the detective said, "I don't know what's going on." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I couldn't tell if he was lying or not." 

"Why not?" 

"His heartbeat. His breathing. It was paced." Jim pressed the button to return to the lobby. "And did you see Bass' reaction?" 

"Yeah? So?" 

"His heartbeat was going crazy." 

"You were accusing his lover, Jim. What did you expect?" 

"Didion heard it. He heard it before I did. I saw him look straight at Bass." 

"Bass' heartbeat? I don't think so. He's not a sentinel." 

"He heard Bass' heartbeat, Blair. I know he did." 

* * *

=

Jim flipped through his address book, looking for the name of an army buddy he hadn't spoken to in years. As he searched for him, Jim hoped that his friend still worked for the personnel records department for the Army. Once he finally found the number, he dialed it and prayed. 

A voice answered. "Captain Spiegel." 

"Spiegel? They haven't promoted you yet?" 

"Wait a second. I know this voice. Who the hell is this?" 

"James Ellison." 

"Captain Ellison? Holy shit, how the hell are you?!" 

"It's Detective Ellison, now, and I'm fine. What's going on in your life?" 

Jim listened to Spiegel's update on his wife and two kids and his new house, and Jim filled him in on his movement through the ranks of the Cascade PD. After a few more minutes of small talk, Jim began to probe. "Uhm, Spiegel, listen, I need some help on a case here." 

"You need _my_ help. What can I do you for?" 

"I have a case involving a guy who claims he was once an Army Ranger. I just wanted to check it out." 

"Sure thing. Let me get to that program on my computer. What's his name." 

"Sachs. S-A-C-H-S. First name, Didion. D-I-D-I-O-N." 

"Hold on a second. This won't take long. Oh . . . there he is." 

"So he was a ranger?" 

"Yeah, he was a ranger. Has the rank of captain." 

"Oh. What was he trained in?" 

"Covert Ops." 

"Covert? How long was he in?" 

"Oh, he's still active." 

"He's what?!" 

A cold silence fell across the phone line, followed by a soft, "Shit." 

"Spiegel?" 

"Damnit, Ellison . . . I can't say any more . . . we have to cut this short--" 

"What the hell's going on?" 

"Ellison, this man is classified. I can't tell you anything else." 

"Come on, Spiegel. This is important!" 

"Nothing doing. Goodbye, Ellison." But before Spiegel hung up, he said, "And Ellison?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Stay clear of this man. He's really dangerous." 

The line went dead. 

Jim stared at the receiver for a few moments. /Didion is still an officer? . . . in Covert Ops?/ The detective dropped the receiver on the cradle. "Didion, what the fuck is going on?" 

* * *

=

Lee Whitmore took a sip of his gin and tonic while sitting at the end of the bar in the Cascade Hyatt. After Jim had punched him, then had thrown him out of the loft, Lee came back here. And now that the economic summit had started, Jim was no longer assisting him on the bombing investigation. Lee fingered the rim of the glass. /Or did he ask to be reassigned?/ Lee closed his eyes. /I really liked Jimmy. I thought he liked me. He and Blair had broken up. I don't see what the big deal was./ His mind drifted back to others, countless others, who had tasted him and then wanted no more. Sebastian. Didion. All those before. All those after. He glanced up at the ceiling. /What am I doing wrong? I try to be nice. I try to stay in shape and look good./ Lee drank some of the cocktail. /Why doesn't anyone want to get close to me?/ 

Looking around, Lee watched the other guests at the front counter, when he noticed two familiar faces. /That's that Collin guy, the one who was dating that cop in Atlanta./ Then he spotted the long curly hair and gaudy jewelry. /Hey, she looks familiar, too. She used to live in Atlanta. She was Bass' friend./ 

Lee observed as the concierge returned from the safe carrying a handgun. /A gun?/ Miriam signed for it, then placed it in her handbag. Collin said something to her, and she just waved him off. Lee continued to stare as they left the hotel. /What the hell's going on?/ He rubbed his chin. /In Atlanta, a bomb went off, and Collin, Bass, Didion, and that woman, they were all there. Now, in Cascade, a bomb goes off, and all four of them are back in town . . . That's one hell of a coincidence./ 

The agent left his drink on the bar as he strolled up to the front counter. The concierge smiled and asked, "Is there something I can do for you?" 

Lee pulled out his badge. "I'm Agent Lee Whitmore, and I'd like to ask you a few questions." 

* * *

=

The ringing telephone distracted Didion from watching the world of Cascade through the glass windows in his office. Swinging his chair around, he reached across his desk for the phone. "Didion Sachs." 

"Dr. Coles, here." 

"Yes, Dr. Coles." The man chilled Didion's blood. 

"Just thought you should know that Detective James Ellison was able to access your personnel files." 

"How?" 

"Called one of his old army buddies, who has since been reassigned." 

"What does he know?" 

"He knows that you are still an active Covert Ops agent." 

/Shit!/ "Thank you, Dr. Coles. I'll handle it." 

"You had better." 

Didion dropped the phone in its cradle, then rubbed his face. As the anger sparked, he snatched up a glass paperweight and flung it against the wall, enjoying the smashing sound and watching the diamond slivers catch the daylight. Seconds later, when Sebastian rushed into the office, Didion was still in a rage, pacing. 

"Didion? What was that? What just broke?" 

"Jim found a way to access my personnel files." 

"How?" 

"He got one of his old contacts at the Army to do it. I don't guess either of them knew that opening up those files would flag the Project." Didion turned in his pacing and drew closer to Sebastian. "Jim just isn't acting like he's supposed to. He's not distracted enough. Even after he slept with Lee, Blair's still right there, with him! They're on to me. He knows I had something to do with the assassination. Now he knows I'm still an active Covert Ops agent. He's not distracted. I've been too soft with them. Shit!" 

"Didion?" Sebastian asked nervously. "What are you thinking?" 

"Thinking? I'm not thinking anything. I know what I have to do." 

"Didion?" 

"I have to turn up the heat. Nothing we do is breaking them up. They're still a team. It's time to take that team down once and for all." 

Sebastian grabbed Didion hard. "What are you planning?" 

"We have to eliminate Blair." 

"No!" 

"What do you mean, 'no'?" 

"Kill Blair? You can't be serious!" 

Didion's eyes grew narrow, and he towered over Sebastian. One eyebrow arched. "This is a job, Bass. We let ourselves get too close and now we need to cut to the chase." 

"Please, Didion. There has to be another way. Please. Not Blair." 

The assassin stared at Sebastian for a moment, and his voice came out steel-edged. "You love him, don't you?" 

Sebastian turned his back to him. "That's ridiculous." 

But Didion grabbed him and spun him back around. "You do love him." He squeezed Sebastian's arms painfully. "You do, don't you?" 

Sebastian shoved him back. "He's my friend. And a damn good one. And he's a decent person whose life we've shattered. And now you want to kill him? Just who the hell are you? Who have I been in love with all this time?" 

They stared at each other, both of them registering the anger and pain in their eyes. Finally, Sebastian rushed from the room, and alone, Didion slammed his fist against the redwood wall. Breathing hard, he rested his forehead against the cold, polished wood. /What am I thinking? I couldn't do that to Blair. Not now. Not any more./ He rolled his head back. /Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?/ 

* * *

=

Blair stretched out on the sofa, and with a contented sigh, opened his book and began to read. After a few pages, and just as he was beginning to lose track of himself, he heard a knock on the door. He dropped the book on the floor, opened to the page, and stepped toward the door. Suddenly, despite the solid door between them, Blair just _knew_ Sebastian was behind it."Bass?" He immediately opened the door, and he felt guilty as his heart began to glow when he saw him -- until he noticed the expression on Sebastian's face and felt the emotions pouring from him. 

His eyes were red and swollen, and his face was still puffy from crying. Instantly Blair felt himself becoming protective. "What is it? What's happened?" 

"Is Collin home?" 

He grabbed Sebastian by the arms and pulled him inside. "Bass, what's wrong?" 

Sebastian held up his hand and pushed Blair away. "Is Collin home?" 

Just then, Collin stepped out of his bedroom. He saw Sebastian's troubled expression as he came closer. "Bass, what's wrong?" 

"I need to talk to you." 

Blair tried to interrupt. "Tell me what's going on." 

"No, Blair. I need to talk to Collin." 

Collin shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, Bass." 

"Come outside. I need to talk to you alone." 

Blair felt the sting, but he tried not to show it. "Sure. Sure. I don't mind." Blair backed out of their way as they both left the apartment. 

Collin followed behind Sebastian, trying to interpret his sagging shoulders, his hands shoved in his pockets, and the obvious fact that he had been crying. /Something's happening. Something's going down./ Neither of them spoke as they climbed down the stairs together, and Collin continued to follow Sebastian across the grounds of the apartment, towards a small duck pond. 

Sebastian slumped down on the wooden bench overlooking the still surface of the dark water, and he dropped his face in his hands. Collin sat down beside him and waited. Finally Sebastian moaned, "I want to go back." 

"Where." 

"I want to go back to those days in Atlanta. Before the Olympics." He lifted his head, and tears slid down his cheeks, frightening Collin. 

"Do you want to start over?" 

"No, not start over. Just visit. Like going home. I need to know why I left that." Sebastian laughed miserably. "But hell, we can't go back, even if we tried. Oxford Books is gone, and we can't sit drinking cappuccino and reading books at the Cup and Chaucer until 2 a.m. anymore. And Weekends is gone. No more dressing up all in black with our long earrings and dancing to Bau Haus until the sun rose. And we can't sit on the terrace at Cafe Mythology anymore and watch the moon over Midtown. Hell, it's some straight martini bar now. And we can't go to Velvet and dance all night on the speakers. Now it's some pfoofy restaurant. It's just gone. It's all gone." 

Collin place his hand on his cousin's knee. "Is it the place, or the person, that you need?" 

"Both, I guess." 

"You can't go back to being that person, Bass." 

Sebastian wiped his eyes. "I know." 

"But you can protect the people who are like you, the way you were then, and keep them from harm." 

He stared at Collin with red eyes. 

"Bass, think about Blair. He reminds me of you every day, the way you were then, before you left Atlanta. Always searching books. Always hungry for life. So full of energy. You had such a love of life and a spirit of adventure." 

Sebastian stared at his hands. 

"If you really want to go back, then you have a duty to protect those who represent what you were." 

Sebastian looked him straight in the eye. "Then you have to tell Blair to leave. Tell him to get out of town for a little while." 

"You can't be serious." 

"Blair has to leave." 

Collin noticed how Sebastian's hands trembled, and the expression in his eyes was frighteningly serious. "You can't do it," Collin backed away from him in horror. "You don't have that kind of evil in you. You won't let it happen. That's why you're this upset. I've never seen you like this." 

Sebastian cried, "Collin, I'm falling apart right now! And it's because I can't do a goddamned thing! You have to get Blair out of town, and fast! Please!" 

Collin turned, his mouth gaping, to stare at the surface of the water in shock. 

* * *

=

Meanwhile, Blair paced the apartment. When the door open, he quickly observed Collin's behavior. He was visibly disturbed, and Blair confronted him. "What's wrong with Bass?" 

"I tried to tell you that Didion had a dark side. And I tried to tell you that Bass is affected by it." 

"Did he beat him?" 

"Not physically. It's never physically. But it's always psychologically." 

"I could tell. I could feel it." Blair stared at the door. He couldn't understand it, but his anger was all consuming. /Has to be the connection. Has to be because of that night during the trance./ He was never this angry at Jim for sleeping with Lee. His vision was literally tinged with red. /Didion is not going to get away with this. Not this time./ 

* * *

=

Ian switched off the bedroom lights, but the light from the fireplace cast the room in a soft glow. He crawled into bed, leaning against the headboard to stare at his lover. In silence, Collin sat on the opposite side of the bed, his elbows on his knees. Not saying anything, Ian reached out and placed his hand on the small of Collin's back, feeling the soft cotton of the tee shirt he always wore, except when they were intimate, to hide the burn scars on his back. 

Collin felt the delicate touch, and the words spilled from his mouth. 

"He never came to me." 

"Who?" 

"Brian." 

Ian stiffened slightly, then slid closer. He had only heard cursory tales of Collin's life with Brian, small snippets when Collin would reveal them. He hungered for them, hoping they would help him understand this strange, sharp man who had so captivated him. "When?" 

Not hearing his question, Collin rambled. "Brian and I went to school together. This tiny little liberal arts college in the middle of bum-fuck Georgia. We all did. Me . . . Bass . . . Miriam. And Brian went, too, but I didn't really know him all that well, then. He was a frat boy. I knew _of_ him, I guess. I recognized his face. He was . . . is still, I guess . . . so handsome. Dark hair. Gray eyes with flecks of hazel. I suspected he was straight, so I didn't give him much thought. Then two years after we graduated, and after we all had moved to Atlanta, I was hanging out at Backstreets one night and we ran into each other. So we started talking. He remembered me from school and said he always wondered where I'd gone to. He had just finished up at the police academy and was working the Midtown beat. That's when we started dating." 

"You said he never came to you?" 

"We bought this old farm house halfway between Atlanta and Athens, and we started fixing it up. Two stories. It had a wrap-around porch, and the back yard looked out onto a lake. Huge pecan trees in the front. A magnolia. We both worked in the garden in the morning, then when it got too hot, we'd work inside -- painting. Restoring. We built this beautiful bathroom, with shelves to hold all sorts of candles and incense. A claw-foot tub. Antique stained glass in the windows. It was so romantic." 

Collin paused to look down at his fingers. "Then things just sort of . . . died. When we first started dating, he always had his hand on me, or an arm around my waist at parties. Claiming me. Then he stopped. He would sit on his end of the couch and grunt if I tried to sit close to him. Before, when he would leave in the morning, he would lean over the bed and give me a kiss goodbye." Collin smiled painfully, and tears started to flow. "It was so sweet to wake up that way. He stopped doing that, too. And we stopped having sex. If I said anything about it, Brian would just say that sex wasn't a big thing to him, that he never had been all that interested in sex. He said he didn't understand why I had to have it all the time. 'Why can't we just cuddle?' But it wasn't the sex I wanted, it was the intimacy, because that was gone, too. He didn't even want to cuddle anymore. When we would go to sleep at night, he would point his knees into my chest to keep me from getting close to him. 

"And so at night, I would draw a bath in that big tub. Light some candles. Turn on some soft music. I was hoping, just once, that he'd come up to the bathroom and join me. Just once. To tell me he still loved me. That we could be in love again. And I would sit in the bathtub, waiting, until the water got cold. And Brian would stay downstairs, watching tv. Drinking a beer. He never came to me. He never came to me. He never came to me." 

Ian pulled at Collin's shoulders, drawing him closer to lie on his chest, wrapping his arms around his lover to comfort him. He tried to formulate some kind word or phrase, but before he could decide on the right ones, Collin spoke again. 

"Then Didion came." 

"Didion?" 

"Brian started working late every night. I thought it was because of the Olympics, but things still didn't sit right. That's when I found out. Brian was sleeping with Didion." 

"Didion? Why didn't you tell me? Does Bass know?" 

"Yes. Bass knows. And Blair." 

"You told Blair, but not me?" 

Collin lifted himself from Ian's chest, his face glistening with tears. "I'm trying to tell you now." 

Ian sighed softly, then kissed Collin on the forehead. "I'm sorry." 

"You have no idea how much that hurt me. For months I had just assumed that Brian still loved me, he just wasn't interested, or didn't have the energy, to be intimate. But the truth was, he didn't want to have sex with _me_. I wasn't good enough for him. He wasn't the problem. I was the problem. I was devastated." Collin sat up in bed. "I had never felt so physically unattractive, so ugly, in my entire life." 

Ian instantly sat up and cupped Collin's face with his hands. "You're not ugly." 

"I'm not beautiful." 

"You are beautiful. You have the thickest red hair I've ever seen." He brushed a wave of hair from Collin's face, and in the flickering orange light from the fire, the tears on Collin's face sparkled. "I love to touch your hair. And perfect skin. And your eyes are so green. I thought you were wearing contacts when we first met. Sometimes you look at me, and you take my breath away. You're physically incredible, and then that brain of yours, so sharp and fast, and your spirit and charm. Collin, you're beautiful." 

"Thank you, Ian. I appreciate that. Truth is, I've been listening to an army of faceless, nameless psychiatrists tell me the same thing for years." 

"Psychiatrists?" 

Collin stared at Ian for a moment. "After Brian left me, he stopped seeing Didion, too. Or maybe Didion stopped seeing him. Brian started dating another cop named Scott. I really liked Scott. He had only been in the Army a short time before he quit and joined the force. When all this happened, he had just been named a detective and he was so good. That broke my heart even more. Then Didion targeted Bass, and he seduced him. I felt so isolated. He took away my husband. Then he took away my cousin, my best friend. Then . . . some other things happened. I just couldn't take it anymore. Something just . . . broke inside me. I was watching a television show about Indian women committing sati, burning themselves on a funeral pyre. So I called Brian at the station and told him I needed to see him for the last time. 

"I waited long enough for him to get to the house, and then I set fire to it. From the inside." 

He closed his eyes, and another stream of tears fell across his cheek. Ian wiped them away. 

"I wanted to die in that house. And I wanted Brian to be standing outside, watching. Unable to get in. I wanted him to see me die. I wanted that burned in his memory for the rest of his life. Like an image of the sun burned on the backs of his eyes. I wanted him to feel what I felt. I wanted him to cry. I wanted him to feel lost and abandoned and cursed." 

Ian folded Collin into his arms, pressing Collin's forehead against the crook of his neck and shoulder. "Oh, baby." He stroked his back, finally understanding the scars there. 

* * *

=

In the middle of the night, Ian awoke from a pleasant dream gone awry. He remembered his days in the Project, innocently injecting an amber serum into his patients' veins -- row after row of men brought to the clinic for various reasons. And he remembered that one special patient. His name was Quinn -- it was his last name. He was a happy-go-lucky Texan with angled cheekbones, soft light brown hair, light green eyes flecked with hazel. Ian delighted in hearing his accent -- both lilting and twangy, and he found himself spending more and more time at his bedside, and then on casual walks around the grounds. One afternoon, as the sun was setting, Quinn had leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. "Just wanted to see what that felt like." Then he winked. A few days later, Ian had discovered a private room with an empty bed, and he managed to secret Quinn away -- the sex was both passionate and playful. 

In the dream, Ian couldn't find Quinn as the surroundings became more surreal and disjointed. When he woke up, he rediscovered the heavy sense of loss and guilt that had driven him finally from the Project. Lying on his back, with Collin asleep on his chest, Ian stared at the ceiling. These memories were painful -- he had fallen in love with a soldier he had unknowingly helped to kill. As much as he could, he tried to avoid these memories. But now, after hearing Collin finally confess his own demons, Ian felt a little ashamed that he couldn't do the same. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mind, recalling in detail the events of that day. As he had made his rounds, he had to rein in the impulse to go straight to Quinn's bed. Instead, he had forced himself to spend extra time with each soldier until he was close enough to Quinn's bed that he could glance over at him. 

The bed was empty. 

Ian had stopped what he was doing and rushed to the bed, checking the records. No records. The bed was folded and neat as if no one had slept there. "Where is Jon Quinn?!" he had shouted. "Where is Jon Quinn?!" 

A circle of high-level doctors had pulled him aside, and although Ian could not remember their exact words, he could recall the gist of it. Jon Quinn had died in the middle of the night of an aneurysm. His body had been flown to San Antonio that morning. 

For the rest of that day, Ian had worked in a daze. And he remembered working with his last patient. Ian had stepped into the examining room, but he couldn't make eye contact with the soldier. With the robotic motions of an automaton, Ian counted out the exercises -- checking the reflexes, the ears, the strength of the arms and legs. Finally, when he needed to begin checking the soldier's vision, he made eye contact with the brutally arrogant and stern man. 

His curly brownish-blond hair. His attractive face and dimpled chin. His light blue eyes. 

Ian's eyes grew wide in the dark and his mouth gaped. 

Didion Sachs. Ian knew the man looked familiar, but his repression of those events in the clinic kept him from making the connection. Now he remembered. He was a patient at the clinic. He was a member of the Project. 

His vision snapped down to Collin lying on his chest. /Bass is Didion's lover, and you're Bass' cousin. . . . But are you really?/ Carefully, so as not to wake him, Ian rolled Collin off his chest, then he slid out of the bed to stand over him. /What the bloody hell is going on?/ Fear gripped him, and he slowly backed out of the bedroom. /What the bloody hell is going on?!!!/ 

* * *

=

That next morning, as Didion drove to work, his cell phone began to ring. Deftly, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit while still driving through traffic. "Didion Sachs." 

"Sir, it's Eric." 

Didion recognized the voice of one of his R & D scientists. "Yes Eric." 

"Call me on a secure line, sir. We've made a significant breakthrough. We've done it." 

* * *

=

Throughout the day, Blair continued to think about Sebastian. He could easily sense how upset he was, but there was something else, some feeling that bothered him even more and that explained, at least to him, why he kept finding himself thinking about Sebastian's situation. Blair could literally _feel_ how disturbed his friend was, as if he was Sebastian himself. While he sat in his office at Rainier, he couldn't grade essays or work on his class notes or even read, and so he went home early. 

Once at Collin's apartment, Blair was even more disconcerted, and he began to pace. By nightfall, when Collin finally came home, Blair was practically trembling with energy. 

"So how was your day?" Collin asked as he shucked off his coat. 

"Fine," Blair replied quickly, running his hands through his long hair. "Fine." 

"A little tense, I see." 

"No, I'm fine." Blair pushed the blinds apart slightly to peer into the darkness. 

"So what did you do today?" 

"Huh?" He turned around quickly. "Oh . . . nothing." 

"I see." Collin stepped closer. 

"And you? I didn't see you on campus today." 

"I was out with Miriam." 

"How's she doing?" 

Collin sat down on the sofa. "She's as antsy as you are. What the hell's going on with y'all?" 

"Nothing. You said she's antsy? Why? Did you tell her about Bass?" 

Collin examined his fingernails for a moment, then confessed, "Yes." 

"Is she upset?" 

"To put it mildly. I think she's planning to run Didion down in her car." 

Blair stared out the window again. "Or shoot him." 

"Are you sure you're all right?" 

"Me? I'm fine. Just a little pissed." Blair squeezed his fingers into a fist, then burst into a fit of activity as he rushed toward the coat rack. 

"Where are you going?" 

As Blair threw his coat on quickly, he answered, "I'm going out. There's something I need to do." He grabbed his cell phone from the charger, then slammed the door behind him. 

Alone in his apartment, Collin listened to the silence for a moment, hearing Blair start his car then peel out of the complex. He looked around the room, thinking, then he slowly rose from the sofa and walked toward the coat rack. 

* * *

=

Lee Whitmore sat at the bar at the Cascade Hyatt, watching the front counter and waiting. He sipped on a club soda -- nothing alcoholic -- and occasionally he glanced at his watch. He stared at the guests as they checked in and out, made calls, asked questions. Tall men. Short men. Tall women. Short women. One human being after another. Then his heartbeat spiked as he recognized the long curly hair, the jangling bracelets, the silver rings, the impetuous laugh. Miriam Frohmeir waited her turn to approach the counter. The concierge just lifted a finger to her, then slipped into the back. Miriam smiled, then glanced around the hotel. Quickly, Lee looked down at his drink so she wouldn't catch him staring at her. The concierge approached with her handgun. Miriam put it into her purse, signed the check-out slip, then waved goodbye. 

Lee slipped off the barstool and followed her. 

* * *

=

Later that night, Didion paced the floor of his office. In the distance, he could hear the stereo playing random cds that he had installed. /Where the hell is Bass? God, I need to tell him what's happened. They found a way. We're saved. We're saved. And Jim and Blair. This is over for them, too./ He sighed. He didn't know what brought him more relief, knowing that he could finally free Sebastian and himself of this burden, or that he didn't have to hurt Jim and Blair any longer. /Maybe we can actually be friends. . . . Friends? Come on, Didion. Friendship based on a lie? Will that ever happen?/ The songs were starting to annoy him, and he dialed down his sense of hearing. The act of dialing down his senses made him think back to the phone conversation he had had with his research and development team. /Can I live without my senses, if only for a little while?/ 

He sat down in the large leather chair behind his massive marble desk and rubbed his forehead. /I don't know if I can do it./ Concentrating, Didion dialed down all of his senses, his hearing, his sight, his sense of smell, his touch. With his eyes closed, he explored this world of the void, of absence. In a way, it reminded him of swimming naked, and having the sensation of water flowing over his body so consistently that it caused him to zone. The silence was almost spiritual and cleansing, and it helped him relax a little while he waited for Sebastian to return. 

Thinking of Sebastian made him open his eyes suddenly, and when he did, he noticed a figure shadowed in the doorway. 

"You?" 

"Hello, Didion." 

His vision cut through the dark and he recognized the 38 caliber gun pointed at him. "What are you doing?" 

"Deliver a message for me." The hammer cocked. "Tell the devil I said hello." 

"No, wait! I have to --" 

The gun bucked in the killer's hand, and the bullet neatly pierced Didion's chest. Two more bullets tore through his breast, and Didion fell with thud against the black marble desk, his eyes open, but no longer seeing. 

END PART II.


End file.
